


With Eyes Like His Soul

by SixtySevenChevy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Demon!Dean, M/M, Season/Series 04, basically if Dean came back from hell as a demon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixtySevenChevy/pseuds/SixtySevenChevy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forty years is a long time. More than long enough to... change someone.</p><p>(Basically, what season 4 would look like if Dean came back as a demon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lazarus Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is important on this one. I'm thinking about continuing it, and just dong a whole season 4 rewrite with Demon!Dean, but I won't do it if people think I shouldn't. 
> 
> If it seems stiff and overly-formal in the beginning, that's intentional. Just keep going; it loosens up.

Darkness surrounds him. The air, stale and stagnant, burns in his lungs. He waits, tensing his muscles, preparing for the attack that is surely coming. The coolness is entirely foreign after so long in the fires, the blackness an assault on his previously overused senses. Everything is eerily still and quiet.

He detests it.

“Help,” he rasps, realizing that maybe if he begs, the higher-ups will tire of their twisted game and let him go. His pride bent, he calls again, his vocal chords straining to make sound and throat burning. “Help!”

Nothing. No laughter from the shadows, no familiar heat blasted from all angles, no blood and screams. All that remains is the blackness, the coolness, the quietness. He realizes, then, that he is wearing clothes, scratchy ones that feel so very familiar on his aching body. Denim and cotton, complete with buttons and zippers and holes. Pockets.

He digs into his pockets, struggling to find something that may be useful. Four coins and a ball of lint in one; two spiders and a lighter in the other. He struggles to get the lighter out in this tiny space. The lighter sparks when he tries to light it, once twice thrice. On the third try, a small flame leaps from the tip. The tiny fire is a comfort. It reminds him of home.

“Help!” he calls again, confused. They should have let him go by now. Souls need tortured, and they’re short-staffed as it is. Dozens of loyal denizens were slaughtered within the last forty years, taken out one by one in the world above. He doesn’t know who did it, but if he ever meets them, they’ll pay. It’s their fault he has no time off. He hasn’t even been allowed Above yet.

“Help! Sam!” he calls, hoping that if he calls for his brother, they’ll take pity on him. A long time ago, before he turned the tables, they used to carve until he screamed that name, and laugh. Sometimes, he got sympathy when he pleaded for Sammy to _help, please, Sam!_ Sometimes, they cut deeper.

Deciding to take matters into his own hands, he glances around his small prison, and nearly gives up then and there. They’d put him in a coffin. Not very smart, on their part; Sam would never have buried him. He’d have been burned, like any other hunter, like his father. 

Still, coffins are escapable. If he shows enough initiative and will, his superiors will let him get back to work. His hands itch for the knives, and he doesn’t pause to be horrified. This is simply his life now. 

The wood splinters under his fists, showering him with dirt. He spits it out of his mouth and shakes his head, trying to clear his airways. Strange, he’s never felt the need to breathe before. He wonders who ordered this assault. Probably Alistair, or maybe Lilith; both despise him. They are the only enemies he has who are strong enough to do something like this.

Clawing and scraping, he painstakingly makes his way to the surface. The dirt is cold on his bare skin and gritty, getting into his clothes, driving him near-insane. He isn’t buried deep, that much he knows. He’s too warm to be six feet under.

His hand breaks the surface, and he fancies that it looks like a bad zombie movie, what with that one dirty hand scrabbling at the ground as he digs himself out. Finally, he can sit up. His skin burns in the sudden light, and for a split second he thinks that he’s back Below and everything will go back to normal. One eye open, the other squeezed shut, he drags himself the rest of the way out of the ground. Fully exhumed, he collapses onto the grass.

Grass. There is no grass where he comes from. He should never have felt grass again, not even the dead, dry kind currently prickling at his body. Hell has no need for plants, only steel and iron and obsidian. So where is he?

He looks up. Sees trees bent as if a bomb went off and knocked them down like dominos. Looks around and is astonished to see dead, yellow grass and bent, broken trees and blue, clear sky and color, so much color, filling his eyes and making him shrink back from the pure life of it. He can’t be in the Pit. There is no color there, only black and gray and, occasionally, red. 

So where is he?

He stumbles, the dusty road hard under boots that feel unfamiliarly worn on his feet. The sun beats down, the heat not as strong as he’s used to. His body (or at least the thing that looks like his old body) is horribly out of shape, unused to being occupied, and he finds himself sweating quickly. He ties his jacket around his waist and continues walking, searching for anything useful, a building or a passing car.

It doesn’t take long for him to stumble upon a small building; a gas station. It’s dusty and small and looks like it hasn’t been opened for the day, or maybe the week. He glances through the dirty window on the door and tries to see if anyone is inside.

“Hello?” he calls, his voice breaking and throat dry, so very dry. No answer. He shrugs, wraps his jacket around a hand, and slams his elbow into the glass. It shatters easily and he reaches inside, turning the knob and forcing the door open.

He goes straight for the water. He hasn’t felt anything remotely wet for so long. The water is cold and soothing on his parched mouth, and it is then that accepts that he, somehow, got out. Hell has no color and no water and both are simply impossible there. He can’t be underground.

Still holding the half-empty water bottle, he spots a newspaper. He scrambles to pick it up, to see how long he was dead. It can’t have been more than a week up here, he reasons; his body doesn’t seem decayed at all. Unless Sam made a deal—no, he won’t think about that. Instead he reads the date at the top of the newspaper. “September?” he breathes. Four months? Well, that narrows it down. When he finds Sammy, he’s going to kill him.

He hates how dirty and gritty his face feels, so he looks around for a bathroom of some sort to wash. Having spotted one, he makes for the door, fighting to get it open. It stinks, like any gas station bathroom would, but even that isn’t enough to faze him anymore. Hell will do that to a guy.

He turns on the tap and washes his face, reveling in the feeling of water. He will never get used to it, ever again, not after so long in the fire. Thinking of the fires, of hell, of all those souls and screams and torture and pain and suffering and _help me please_ —no, he won’t think about that either. However, he does suddenly remember that, by all laws of nature, his chest should be shredded. He works his shirt up with aching hands, careful to avoid the spots where he can feel bruises forming, to get a better look at himself. Nothing. No cuts, no scars, not even the ones he’s had for years, mar his flesh now. The only thing there is the tattoo, the one that was supposed to keep demons from possessing him. He wonders if it’ll bring any unforeseen complications.

So, his chest and torso are fine, more than fine, but his shoulder aches like the devil. He laughs a bit at his thought and turns his body, angling it so he’ll be able to see his shoulder better in the dim light. He pulls his sleeve back and gasps. There, right on the joint, is a handprint, raised and pink and scarred, as if burned right into the flesh. He furrows his brow and pulls his sleeve back down.

Choosing to ignore the handprint and the aches and pains in his whole body, he turns his mind to food. He fills a plastic bag with it, adding more water and a newspaper, stocking up for later. He passes the porn rack on his way out and glances at the magazines, but continues without taking one. They don’t matter anymore; he’s spent too long Below to really care enough.

He helps himself to the money in the register, figuring that he needs it more than whoever owns the gas station. He puts the bills in his pocket and is about to leave when the little television on the counter flickers to life, screen filling with black and white dots and making a static noise. He reaches towards it to turn it off, but as soon as he does the radio starts acting up. He takes a step toward it to turn it off. The TV turns back on. Dread fills him. This can’t be good.

He heads to where he saw some salt earlier. Grabbing a can, he turns to the nearest window. The salt gets everywhere when he opens it and tries to pour it onto the windowsill; he doesn’t dare touch any of it to direct the flow. He pauses, noticing a ringing sound, and covers one ear with a hand. The ringing gets louder, to the point of physical pain. He grunts and redoubles his efforts, shaking the salt onto the sill, ignoring the fact that he’s boxing himself in and will soon be trapped in a gas station. 

He stops, the ringing having become too painful. He ducks and covers both ears, waiting for the inevitable. The glass explodes and the waves of pressure knock him to the floor. He curls into a fetal position, trying to protect himself as all the glass in the little building shatters. Shards open up little cuts all over his arms, but he doesn’t care. The ringing hurts like nothing he has ever felt. While hell burned, this slices deeper, penetrating down into the very fibers of his ravaged soul. It hurts in a way that leaves him blind and gasping, not even able to scream or try to escape. He fully understands, in that moment, the true meaning of agony.

Suddenly, it stops. Everything is silent once more. He glances around, slowly taking his hands from his bleeding ears. Taking a grip on the counter, he pulls himself painstakingly to his feet. Awe fills him when he sees the blown-out windows and destruction. He hastens to take his plastic bag and leave.

The payphone outside is no doubt riddled with bacteria, but he uses it anyway, sticking a quarter in the slot and dialing Sam’s number. A recorded woman’s voice informs him that the number he dialed no longer exists. Repressing the worry pooling in his gut, he hangs up and repeats the process, calling Bobby this time.

“Yeah?” He feels his knees go weak with relief. Hearing that gruff voice, slightly more familiar than even his own father’s, he is struck with the absurdity of his situation. According to the date on his stolen newspaper, he’s been dead for four months. Bobby would never believe it to be him.

“Bobby?” he chokes out, suddenly at a loss for what to say. 

“Yeah?” Bobby repeats, clearly impatient. Dean wants to cry, but he doesn’t. He wants to plead with Bobby to tell him what happened, but he can’t. He wants nothing more than to run to Bobby and curl up on his lap like when he was seven and missing his dad. But he won’t.

“It’s me,” he says brokenly.

“Who’s me?” Bobby demands. His jaw works for a second as he tries to find what to say. What _could_ he say? He could just come out with it, say the name he can barely remember. That seems like the most plausible way to go. He struggles, casts about, almost panicking when he can’t remember. He lets out a heavy sigh that is dangerously close to being a sob.

“Dean,” his mouth says, as if of its own accord. Relief chases the panic from his veins. _Dean, my name is Dean,_ he thinks. _Dean Winchester_. He may be changed irrevocably, but he is still Dean Winchester, no matter if he’s human or not.

Dial tone greets his ears and he wants to cry all over again. Of course Bobby would hang up. It makes sense. Some hunters have Bobby’s number and no inhibitions. It’s not the first time he’s gotten a call from someone dead, when it was really some ass with a payphone.

He pushes the lever and inserts another coin, clutching the phone like a lifeboat in a hurricane. It doesn’t even ring this time. “Who is this?” Bobby says immediately. He sounds angry, and hurt, and a little desperate. Dean hates himself even more for making him feel this way.

“Bobby, listen to me—” Dean starts desperately, but Bobby cuts him off.

“This ain’t funny. Call again and I’ll kill you,” Bobby threatens, and then hangs up. Dean sighs and puts the phone back in its cradle, casting about for other ideas. He needs to get to Sioux Falls, this he knows without any doubt. He can’t walk; he’s in Illinois. He has no money, and is nowhere near a highway to hitchhike. That leaves theft.

He saw a car when he arrived, and now he looks at it appraisingly. It’s older, so he’ll be able to hotwire it easier, although it’s been sitting for a while, far as he can tell. He shrugs and exits the phone booth, jogging across the dusty parking lot. Whoever owns—owned, now—the car was clearly an idiot; it’s unlocked. He starts it easily, wires sparking and engine purring as he smiles at his handiwork. He really missed his car, and this is close enough to make him a little bit happier.

The road is bumpy for a while, but at last it evens out into smooth, black highway. He rolls the windows down and lets the wind whip across his face, driving at a speed at least twice the limit. The radio in the old car doesn’t work, and the CDs are all worthless, so he sits in silence as he drives. He doesn’t mind; the quiet is still a welcome change from the chaos of the pit.

It doesn’t take long for him to realize just how tired he truly is. He’s driven for nearly three hours before it becomes unbearable. He needs to sleep, and soon. He knows he’s not far from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, so he elects to keep driving for the half-hour it’ll take to get there. He knows this great little motel…

And _boom, flashback._

_He can’t see, he can’t think, all he knows is pain and it is endless. Knives and flames blend together and he can’t even tell one torment from the next. And the twisted part is that he knows he could end it all, with one little word. Yet still he says no._

Dean blinks and tightens his grip on the wheel, rethinking his decision to sleep soon. If the nightmares will be anything like the flashbacks, he never wants to sleep ever again. He knows most demons experience flashbacks like these; his friend Meg had whispered it to him one evening when they were supposed to be cleaning the swords for the trainers. She was well-versed in the world Above, had even been up there long enough to be killed by a Winchester. He was just lucky she’d forgiven him.

He misses her, Meg, with all her cynicism and sarcasm. He wonders if she knows where he is. Probably not, as not even _he_ knows where he is. Friends are hard to come by in hell. Meg was one of his only ones.

Dean laughs aloud for even thinking about her in a positive way. Wasn’t it not long ago he’d hated her with all his heart? How quickly things change.

XXXXX

The motel was nice, but not as nice as he remembered from when he’d been there before, and the whole night passed in a terror-filled, nightmarish blur. He’d slept for about four hours, given up on getting any more, and gotten back in the car, decidedly not thinking about anything at all. Only two more hours and he’d be in Sioux Falls, with Bobby, possibly dead but at least reunited.

And oh, that thought opens up a can of worms Dean had been avoiding. Bobby would kill him, that was for certain. He’d at least do all the preliminary tests to make sure Dean is actually Dean. The silver knife he could handle, but holy water… Plus, the entire place is filled with devil’s traps. Even if he makes it in alive, he probably won’t make it out.

He quits thinking.

XXXXX

The car is just about running on empty when Dean pulls up to Singer Salvage. He sighs a little in relief at the familiar clutter of cars and parts. Bobby, who never saw any need for much neatness, is still going strong, then. Dean doesn’t even realize how happy Bobby’s still being alive makes him until he’s on the doorstep, hand poised to knock, heart thundering in his chest.

He knocks, and it’s painfully loud to his ears. He can hear Bobby clunking around—wearing boots inside again—and holds his breath. He hasn’t been so stressed since about a decade ago, but that isn’t something he wants to think about right now. He’s concentrating on Bobby.

The door swings open and there he is, Dean’s second father, in all his gruff and bad-tempered glory. Dean can’t help a slight smile from curving his lips, but he banishes it as quickly as possible. In the doorway, Bobby has gone rigid, eyes searching. Bobby takes a slight, stumbling step back. “I don’t—”

“Yeah, me neither,” Dean replies, and for the first time in years he sounds like himself. He steps inside, trying to looks less threatening, shrugging and keeping his eyes downcast, trying to remember the location of each devil’s trap. “But here I am.”

Bobby, unbeknownst to Dean, has reached behind his back and grabbed a knife off the desk. He swings it at Dean, aiming for the face. Dean ducks, feeling his heart plummeting. He knows he shouldn’t be upset but he can’t help it. Disappointment and hurt fill him.

Bobby swings again and Dean grabs his arm, redirecting the knife far from both men. One thing he doesn’t want to do is get killed. Not when he just got here. Dean grunts as Bobby fights him. “Bobby!”

Dean uses the momentum to half-fall, half-leap away from Bobby and into the kitchen. “Bobby!” he yells again, hoping that maybe he can get the old drunk to listen. “Bobby, it’s me!”

“My ass!” Bobby fires back, advancing on Dean. Dean, trying not to panic, grabs a chair and does his best to use it as a barrier. He crouches down to seem less intimidating, the chair between him and the knife. Bobby is panting now, angry and, if Dean looks close enough, desperate.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait!” Dean yelps, grasping the chair with white knuckles. He searches his memory for something, anything, that will make Bobby listen. “Your name is Robert Steven Singer,” he says, holding up one hand to stop any more attacks, “You became a hunter after your wife got possessed. You’re about the closest thing I have to a father! Bobby, it’s me.”

Bobby lowers the knife a bit, but years in the pits have left Dean suspicious. He keeps his hand in the air, imploring Bobby with his eyes to listen. He stands slowly, letting go of the chair. Bobby takes a small, tentative step closer, mouth slightly agape and hands dangling loosely at his sides. He reaches out, grabs Dean’s shoulder, and shakes his head. Dean can feel Bobby’s fingers gripping tighter than necessary, as if reassuring himself that yes, he’s seeing what he thinks he sees.

Dean sighs and drops his defenses, which is the moment Bobby chooses to attack again, swinging his knife up in one last attempt to kill the thing that cannot possibly be Dean. “Whoa, Bobby!” Dean shouts, knocking the knife away and grabbing Bobby from behind, maneuvering him so that he can’t hurt anyone. “I am not a shapeshifter,” Dean says, spitting each word out through gritted teeth.

“Then you’re a revenant!” Bobby counters, fighting against Dean’s hold. Dean pushes the old man away, holding his hands up, Bobby’s knife in one. 

“Okay then,” Dean says. “If I was either, could I do this?” he says, pulling a sleeve back. The knife is sharp, and it easily traces a thin, red line on Dean’s forearm. He furrows his brow and frowns; there was a time when that would have been painful. After enduring what he’s lived through, it’s inconvenient.

Bobby’s breathing quickens, his eyes flitting from the cut slowly oozing blood to Dean’s face. He looks like he can’t believe what he’s saying when he murmurs, “Dean?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Dean breathes, knowing that if he were to talk any louder, his voice would break. He steps forward, toward Bobby, shaking his head slightly. There are tears in his eyes. Bobby gasps for breath as if he’s trying to say something else, but settles for pulling Dean into a tight hug instead. He wraps both arms around the demon—who he thinks is human, but it’s the thought that counts, or at least that’s what Dean tells himself—and holds on. Dean, after a moment, reciprocates, holding so tightly that he’s a little afraid he’ll hurt Bobby.

 

When they pull away, both men have tears in their eyes. “’S good to see you, boy,” Bobby says, still not sounding like he believes this is real life. 

“Yeah, you too,” Dean whispers, feeling like he’s being killed slowly. To see Bobby again, knowing how this meeting can only end, is like a knife through the heart, or claws shredding his chest (which he knows from experience _hurts_ ). 

“But… how did you bust out?” Bobby asks. He sounds like he’s seconds away from crying, or maybe hugging again, or maybe both. His eyes are scanning Dean’s face desperately, taking in every inch of him. It feels so good to be home.

“I don’t know,” Dean answers quietly, and it’s the truth. He isn’t supposed to be allowed out until all of his family is dead; it’s the rules. And clearly, his family is not dead. “I just, I just woke up in a pine box—”

Suddenly, he’s wet. Soaking wet, and his face burns. Bobby must have reached for the holy water. But his face isn’t scalding, steaming, or smoking; he feels sunburned. He should be dead, skin burned off and body ruined. He shouldn’t be able to stand here, perfectly fine, and glare. Maybe the water was faulty. Dean decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He looks away and spits the holy water out. “I don’t appreciate being soaked, Bobby,” he says bitingly. Bobby shrugs and apologizes, but Dean can tell he isn’t really that sorry. He understands; he’d have done the same. 

XXXXX

Bobby listens carefully to everything Dean tells him, silently observing as Dean glosses over details and lies through his teeth. Bobby, after a minute or so, stops the explanation with the promise of a drink. Dean, not one to ever refuse free alcohol, accepts.

“Your story don’t make a lick of sense, boy,” Bobby says, reaching for the whiskey. 

“Yeah, you’re preaching to the choir,” Dean agrees, using the towel Bobby gave him to wipe the holy water off his face. It’s painful and slightly swollen, but he still isn’t dead. For all intents and purposes, he feels like he fell asleep in the sun. Maybe he hasn’t been one of them long enough for holy water to hurt yet; he honestly doesn’t know.

“Dean, your chest was ribbons,” Bobby says, slightly exasperated. “Your insides were slop, and you’ve been buried four months. Even if you could slip out of hell and back into your meatsuit…”

“I know. I should look like a thriller video reject,” Dean says.

“What do you remember?”

And here come more lies. “Not much. I remember I was a hellhound’s chew toy. And then… lights out.” Dean hopes Bobby buys it. Truthfully, hell is all too fresh in his mind, and likely always will be. It’s kind of a hard place to forget. “Then I come to six feet under, that was it.”

Bobby sits down, still looking stricken, and Dean can’t blame him. But he has to ask that one burning question. “Sam’s number’s not working. Is he, uh…?”

“Oh, he’s alive, far as I know.”

“Good.” Dean pauses, and realizes what was just said. “Wait, what do you mean, as far as you know?”

“I haven’t talked to him for months,” Bobby explains, not meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean can’t breathe all of a sudden. He really is going to kill Sam when he sees him next. Idiot.

“You’re kidding. You just let him go off by himself?” he demands. He can feel his eyes burning, and he wonders how much it would take to turn them black. That would reveal him in a heartbeat. He’s been lucky to avoid the devil’s traps; but an angry hunter, even an older and perpetually drunk one, always knows at least one exorcism. 

“He was dead set on it,” Bobby mutters, standing back up. Dean bites his lip. 

“Bobby, you should have been looking after him,” he says.

“I tried! These last months haven’t been exactly easy, you know; for him or for me!” Dean can’t help but nod a little, although for him it’s been decades, not months. Still, it’s the thought that counts. “We had to _bury_ you.”

“Yeah, why did you bury me?” Dean asks.

“I wanted you salted and burned, usual drill, but Sam wouldn’t have it.”

“Well, I’m glad he won that one.”

“He said you’d need a body when he got you back home somehow,” Bobby says, and Dean takes a drink from his beer. Sam is dead, so dead, even if he has to hunt him down in hell. He’ll kill him, he truly will. Anger and fear mix to make Dean nearly vibrate with tension. He can’t deal with this. 

“That _idiot_. I’m going to _kill_ him,” Dean breathes. Bobby furrows his brow and gives Dean one of those looks that clearly says he’s just said something wrong. But Dean can’t bring himself to care. His brother, the reason he went to hell in the first place, the entire reason he is what he is, has done something so stupid, so astronomically idiotic, that Dean is seriously considering killing him. He’ll have to torture him anyway; it’s his job now. 

His eyes _burn,_ and he knows by the look on Bobby’s face that something just went wrong. Oh, no, this is not happening, not now when he just convinced Bobby it was actually him. Quickly, Dean shuts his eyes, covering his face with his hands. But he knows it hasn’t done any good. Bobby’s seen. 

“Dean, look at me,” Bobby whispers, fear evident in his voice. Dean shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut and trying frantically to turn them green again. He never learned how to do this! Meg never told him anything about the eyes!

“Please, Bobby,” Dean mutters, hearing the tears in his voice. His eyes feel like they’re on fire, and he wonders why any demon would ever flash their eyes like this. It _hurts._

“Look at me, boy!” Bobby half-shouts, and rips Dean’s hands from his face. Dean stands with his eyes shut, wishing he could still pray. But he can’t and it’s hopeless anyway; Bobby will still kill him. He slowly opens first one eye, then the other, knowing that they’re black as night and depthless as the ocean, empty and decidedly _not human._

Bobby looks horrified. “Oh, Dean…”

XXXXX

“Bobby, please,” Dean whispers, but he can’t say anything more. What is there to say? He could plead, he could make excuses, he could bargain and beg until he was blue in the face, but it won’t work. He knows it won’t, and still he needs to do _something._

“I don’t understand,” Bobby murmurs, taking a shaky step back. Dean reaches out a hand, wishing he could just force his damn eyes back to normal. He concentrates, he really does, but nothing happens. It feels like he got soap in his eyes, only a hundred times worse.

“Please,” Dean begs, fighting the urge to run and hide. He wants to get as far away from here as possible. He wants to go home, even if he doesn’t know where that is anymore. 

“I used holy water. It didn’t do a thing,” Bobby says in disbelief. Dean resists reaching up to feel his face. He knows that if he gets his hands that far, he’ll just cover his eyes again, and that wouldn’t help at all. 

“Gave me a sunburn,” Dean offers. He tries for a shrug and a smirk, failing miserably.

“Should have killed you,” Bobby says. His voice has hardened, and Dean figures he can count the number of seconds he has left to live in one hand. Sure enough, Bobby has a knife and a murderous glint in his eyes, a combination that would send any self-respecting demon running. “What gives you the right to come in here, pretending to be my boy, and just rip my heart out more? Haven’t your kind done enough?”

Dean, floored by the fact that Bobby just gave up on him that quickly, has nothing to say. He takes a big step back, suddenly rather terrified. If he’s certain the demon isn’t Dean, Bobby has no reason to keep it alive.

“Bobby, I swear it’s me! I’m still me!” Dean shouts, still backing up. He hits wall and presses himself against it, watchful for any attack. Bobby’s face is red with anger, and tears—of rage or pain, Dean doesn’t know—sparkle in his eyes. 

“If you’re Dean, then why are you stuck in a devil’s trap?” Bobby demands. Dean turns on his heel, expecting to meet a wall, but seeing only empty space. He glances down and sees the familiar sigil spread out beneath his feet. He presses his back against the invisible boundary, trying in vain to retreat. He suddenly feels sorry for all the demons he’s done this to. It’s not a pleasant feeling, being trapped in a circle three feet across.

“Dammit,” Dean mutters. “Please. Bobby, I can explain!”

“I’m listening,” Bobby says slowly, still brandishing his knife. He pulls a chair over from a desk and sits down, folding his arms across his chest and nodding at the demon to start, obviously put at ease by the fact that he’s safe, saved by the sigil on the hardwood floor. Dean wets his lips and begins.

“When you go to hell, you eventually become a demon. We knew that before I… well, before I died,” Dean says, still leaning up against the devil’s trap. He feels the burning in his eyes lessen, and wonders if they’re turning green. He hopes so. The pain is distracting. 

“Yeah, I’m the one who figured it out,” Bobby deadpans. Dean swallows and runs a hand across his face, trying not to wince when he brushes the singed flesh. Today has been a terrible day.

“Well, I went to hell. And I came back. Do the math,” Dean exclaims. He waves his hands around in exasperation. “I mean, it wasn’t fun and I sure didn’t like it, but it happened. I’m a demon, Bobby.” He realizes what he just said. “I… I’m a demon.” This time he says it brokenly, tiredly, his voice heavy with all the sadness and sorrow he refuses to allow himself to feel. 

“Yeah, you are,” Bobby whispers. Dean finds himself unable to meet the older man’s eyes. He can feel his eyes go back to normal, but it doesn’t make this any easier. “You really are.”

“So do you believe it’s me?” Dean asks. He can’t look up, can’t see the scorn and anger and hate that are surely etched on Bobby’s features. It would kill him, and he’d be right back where he started. He knows one thing, and that’s that he can’t go back without seeing Sammy one last time.

“I shouldn’t. But I think I do.” Dean’s head snaps up. He searches for any hint of betrayal in the old hunter’s face, and upon finding none, feels his knees go weak. If he weren’t being supported by the invisible barrier, he would collapse.

“Good. Now let me out.”

XXXXX

After ten minutes or so waiting for Bobby to chip enough paint off so that he could move, Dean heads straight for the alcohol. He hasn’t had anything in decades; he deserves to get wasted again. Bobby avoids him warily, and Dean can tell that he still isn’t entirely sure about whether or not this _thing ___is Dean.

“So,” Bobby says before Dean can even finish pouring himself a glass of whisky. “Why isn’t your face burned off?”

Dean sighs and shrugs, downing the glass before he answers. “Hell if I know. Maybe I haven’t been in the club long enough. Maybe your holy water was defective,” he suggests. 

“Defective holy water,” Bobby mutters, “That’s a new one.”

“Lots of things are new, Bobby,” Dean says around his glass. It burns, but not as bad as some things he’s been through recently. His eyes are still sore, as if he were staring at a bright screen in the dark for too long. He’s bone tired, too.

“You’re telling me.”

“Look, I’m exhausted. I just clawed my way out of a shallow grave and drove clear over here. My face hurts and my eyes are sore and I’m pretty sure that I’m dreaming right now. I’m going to bed,” Dean says. He nods at Bobby and brushes past him, making for the bed he’s claimed as his. Hopefully, the nightmares will leave him alone long enough to get some sleep.

XXXXX

They don’t.

XXXXX

Dean wakes sore, groggy, and terrified out of his mind. It doesn’t take long for the last one to go away, thankfully. Aching and exhausted, Dean pushes himself painstakingly to his feet and pads down the hall and into the bathroom.

He tried to avoid the mirror, but fails miserably. Just a passing glance is enough for him to be distracted. He leans in, trying to get the best view of his face, and oh how he’s missed his face. Green eyes (a bit darker than he remembers but forty years is a long time, and maybe the lighting is just bad) tan skin (covered in familiar freckles) white teeth (in neat little rows, thanks to the braces he had when he was fourteen that were a bitch to get off with wire cutters) and his brownish blondish hair. Everything is in place… except the scars and nicks he’s had all his life. He hasn’t got a one.

Dean tears himself away from the mirror and stumbles downstairs, wincing every other step at the pain radiating throughout his entire body. He feels like someone carefully and methodically punched and pinched bruises on every inch of his skin. It’s worse than that time in Montana with Veronica and the Weekend of Pure Bliss and Also Some Really Kinky Stuff Sammy Should Never Know About No Matter What Unless It’s Life Or Death And Maybe Not Even Then, as he refers to it in his head. 

Bobby is nowhere to be found. He’s not in the kitchen, not in the study, and not upstairs. The only place left is the basement, which is not a place Dean will ever be going again. The whole place is rife with sigils and traps. Not to mention all the iron, salt, and holy water strewn about.

“Bobby?” he calls. No answer. Shrugging, Dean grabs a beer from the fridge and settles on the couch, content to watch reruns of various crap shows until Bobby gets home. He flicks through channels, sighing and grunting at the shows that flash across. After five minutes of fruitless searching, he gives up and hits a random sequence of numbers, leaning his head against the back of the couch in defeat.

“Have you accepted the Lord into your life?” 

Dean’s head snaps up, suddenly aware that he’s alone and could stumble upon… pretty much anything that could kill him. Simply watching TV is dangerous. You never know when some priest will be doing an exorcism for whatever reason, or even just saying a prayer. On screen, the short man continues, one hand raised to the sky.

“The Lord will guide you,” the preacher promises with a big, false smile. Dean rolls his eyes and sinks deeper into the couch, giving up on consciousness for a while. Maybe if goes to sleep to the sound of a priest blessing crap, the nightmares will stay away for a while. All he needs is a few hours, for God’s sake. His eyes shut peacefully. However, the peace doesn’t last.

“My child, I say, the Lord will guide you!” Dean groans and fumbles blindly for the remote, hoping to turn the volume down on this guy. It seems that luck is not with him today; the remote takes a swan dive onto the floor and breaks, batteries flying out of reach. 

“Accept Him into your life, and all will be well,” says the preacher. Dean sighs and wrenches open one eyelid, glaring balefully at the fuzzy screen. Maybe he can figure out how to do that telekinesis thing some demons can do. God, his life is fully of maybes today.

“Come on, open up your heart to let the Lord in! He will guide you and protect you in all that you do. My children, if you would only believe, you would be saved! The Lord can do anything, even rescue a hopeless soul from the grips of hell and beyond!”

“Not happening, buddy,” Dean grumbles, still trying in vain to shut off the damned TV. The priest, practically glowing with conviction, bald head shining with sweat, is grinning at the camera from behind his podium. “Been there, done that.”

“Let us pray,” is the only response, and suddenly Dean has a _headache._ Not simply a headache, but a _headache,_ italics and all. God, it hurts. He flinches, pushing himself deeper into the worn cushions in an instinctual attempt at escape. He can dimly hear the sound of a chorus of prayers, but the rushing of blood in his ears nearly drowns it out. He shuts his eyes against the pain. Oh, the pain. Sympathy—and empathy—for all the demons he’s dealt with fill him. If he’d known…

The TV quiets without prompting, and Dean takes a few deep, calming breaths.

There’s a rustling behind him, and he freezes. Images of demons, of torture, of pain and suffering and knives and hot, hot blood and not now _not now_ —

“You alright, boy?” Bobby asks. Dean relaxes instantly, blinking off the flashback. They aren’t as bad as he’d thought they’d be. The way Meg told him, they would be awful, accompanied with searing pain and immobility and, sometimes, blindness. Granted, she also told him he wouldn’t be allowed Above until his family were dead—something about a new policy on revenge—and clearly, that was not the case.

“Yeah, fine,” Dean breathes. He rakes a hand across his face, not wanting to meet Bobby’s eyes. 

“You turn the TV off?” Bobby asks.

“No, why?” Dean glances at the television. Sure enough, it’s off. The screen stares back at him blankly, black and empty. It reminds him of his eyes. “Weird,” he mutters. Then, “Where’d you go, anyway?”

“Outside. Trying to get better reception. I was tracking Sam’s phone with the GPS.” Bobby stops, eyes searching Dean’s face. He knows just how hard it must be for Bobby to trust him now. Dean’s not even sure he trusts himself. “You want to go find your brother?”

Dean looks up. Grins. Nods.

XXXXX

The motel is one of those rent-a-stripper types. Sleazy, pay-by-the-hour, and all too familiar. Of course Sam is here. After all, Dean popped out of the ground not twenty miles away, and on the way in he’d spotted several decent crossroads. There’s only one explanation.

He’s going to kill his brother. Of course he is. The darkness inside him is jumping at the chance to spill fresh blood, and that part of him that’s still vaguely human is cowering against a wall. The rest, the grey in-between, simply doesn’t care. He can’t bring himself to care anymore; he’s seen too much, done too much, to feel bad about plotting a murder. Not even his own brother’s.

He and Bobby ask the man behind the desk if he’s seen anyone looking like Sam checking in lately. They jog his memory with a counterfeit twenty, and he points them down the hall. Dean, heart beating rapidly and mouth twitching into a savage grin, jogs to the door. Only Bobby’s hand on his shoulder stops him from barging right in.

They knock, and it’s a few agonizing seconds before the door opens. Dean tries to calm himself, but it’s nearly impossible. The thought of holding a knife, a gun, anything at all, and _using_ it… he’s almost drooling. Shivers of anticipation run down his spine as he waits for the door to open. He’s going to jump on Sam, strangle him, bludgeon him, beat him senseless before delivering the killing blow—

It’s a girl. Or at least, it’s wearing a girl. Dean stops, blinks, and has the decency to feel horrified. Was he really going to do that to Sammy? The boy he basically raised? He pushes it out of mind. They must have the wrong room.

The demon at the door stares at him in confusion. He doesn’t think he’s met her before. She crinkles her brow and licks her bottom lip, looking like she’s going to say something. Dean shares a glance with Bobby. He doesn’t let on that this pretty young thing before them is anything more than she appears to be.

“Pizza?” she asks finally. So she doesn’t see that Dean is… not a person. Weird. 

“Um, what?” Bobby says. Dean can’t say anything. How can she not see it? He knows he looks like hellspawn; he’s seen himself. It’s not hard to find a mirror, to look past the human façade. He can see her true face plain as day. How can she not see his?

“Pizza. The one that takes two guys to deliver?” she asks sarcastically. Dean laughs while Bobby stares, dumbfounded. 

“Sorry, sugar, I think we have the wrong room. Although, I can send him away and we can find the right one, if you want,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows. Yeah, it’s not the best line, but he’s been in hell for forty years. The way he figures, he deserves to be cut a break.

“Hey,” someone says, and he knows that voice. Just a minute ago, he was fantasizing about silencing that voice forever. Sam, in all of his extremely overgrown glory, pokes his head around the door. Dean swallows hard. His limbs seem to hum and vibrate; he wants nothing more than to leap across the room and grab his brother, whether to hug or murder he doesn’t know. 

Sam stops. Stares. Dean doesn’t think he’s breathing. Neither of them is.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says. It’s a repeat of what happened at Bobby’s house. He looks down, doesn’t make eye contact, the picture of non-threatening despite the shadow within him singing for blood. He hadn’t realized how _angry_ he was with Sam. 

“Dean,” Sam breathes. And then he lunges.

Dean’s always been equally matched with Sam, from the moment he started teaching him to fight. When they were alone in a motel room with Dad three states away, Dean would put down a blanket, put pillows against corners of tables so no one cracked their head open, and he would teach Sammy which holds to use, how to escape, how to throw a punch. 

Sam always had size on his side, and he uses it now to knock Dean off-balance. If Dean hadn’t been strung tighter than a violin string, he’d have gone down. As it was, he was prepared, humming with adrenaline, still unsure of if Sam would make it out of this room alive. 

Dean can feel his eyes stinging as he dodges a punch. He wills them to stay green. If they were to change now, he’d be stabbed and sent back downstairs faster than he could shout for mercy. Or maybe he’d be exorcised. He shudders to think of it. He’s not sure how it would feel, but if listening to a prayer hurts, listening to an exorcism must be astronomical.

Sam slams him against a wall while he’s pondering his fate, and Dean feels the stinging in his eyes increase. They aren’t black yet, but they’re close. He can’t stop them from turning now. They must be triggered by anger, or fear, or maybe pain. He’s definitely feeling all three right now. They’ll be black within seconds, he knows, and Sam will see and kill him, and if he doesn’t do something to make it so that Sam can’t see him soon, he’ll be right back where he started: knife in hand, soul on the rack, bloody grin and cackling laugh.

The light overhead blows out in a dazzling flash of light. Dean blinks, eyes burning, as the two humans and the other demon shout in surprise. All the light bulbs rain glass down on their heads. Dean can feel a shallow cut open up on his forehead, blood trickling down onto his nose.

He can’t deny it anymore. He can move things with his mind. Like that Max kid, the one with demon blood, who blew his own brains out. Dean, hunter turned demon, who tortured souls for a decade as one of the lowest demons in hell, somehow gained telepathy, which only the higher demons can do. Well, isn’t this day getting better and better?

“Dean?” Sam demands, leaning in, presumably to see better. There’s a shard of glass nestled in Sam’s hair, and Dean is struck with the urge to brush it away. He sighs in defeat; he could never have killed his brother.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t beat him until he’s close to death.

He swings wildly, blindly, and feels his fist connect with something. From the sound of his brother’s startled exclamation, he hit the neck. Good. Neck shots are more damaging to your opponent. 

“Boys!” Bobby shouts, and Dean stops in the process of attacking Sam again. Dean manages to slow his hand enough that instead of delivering a crippling blow to the temple, he smacks his brother upside the head. Sam grunts in protest. 

Dean can taste metal. He’s breathing heavily, though the fighting hasn’t tired him out. Rather, it’s the restraint, the sheer impossibility of holding back, that’s depleting his energy. If he had his way, he’d have left town by now, leaving behind a triple homicide and no evidence to aid the police in capturing the monster who killed those innocent people.

“Okay, this is weirding me out,” the girl says. Dean glares at her. He can see in the dark, all demons can, but she’s not looking at him. She’s staring at Sam, who Dean still has in a tight hold, and backing away slowly. Of course, leave it to a demon to abandon her friends when they need her.

Dean almost laughs at the hypocrisy of that thought.

“Um, okay,” Sam says, making no move to get away from Dean. Bobby, still standing in the doorway, huffs in an amused half-laugh.

“I’m leaving,” she says, and backs away. “Call me sometime. Just not… with them.”

“Alright,” Sam says dumbly. Dean wants to smack him again, but refrains. “Bye, Kathy.”

The girl’s face falls, and even the demonic face underneath looks crestfallen. “Kristy,” she corrects, before grabbing the blue duffel bag by the door and leaving, not even pausing to put on proper clothes. Dean doesn’t watch her go. His eyes are trained on his brother.

Dean lets Sam go and pushes him away. Any more prolonged contact and he’ll do something he’ll regret. He sincerely hopes it won’t always be like that. All he wants is to hug his little brother. As soon as he realizes that, his eyes stop stinging. Dean blinks, thankful.

“Dean,” Sam breathes, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the knife Dean hadn’t noticed he had. “Is it—I mean, are you…?”

“Yeah, Sammy, I’m me,” Dean answers. Before he can say anything else, before he can even blink or process what’s happening, there are two large, muscular arms wrapping themselves around him and holding him like they’ll never let go. Bile rises in Dean’s throat, along with bloodlust and a prickling in his eyes, but he clings to Sam. God, he missed the kid.

“How?” Sam asks, and Dean pulls back. He stares, shocked, into two innocent eyes. 

“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t do this,” he warns, and his voice is more venomous than intended. Sam frowns.

“I didn’t! I tried! No one would deal with me!” he protests, and Dean knows he’s telling the truth. He can feel the pure _good intention_ radiating off his brother in the same way he could feel the evil cresting in waves on Kathy/Kristy/whatever. It must be a demon thing, he reasons.

“Alright, Sam, alright,” Dean says, and pulls Sam close again. He really, really, missed this kid.

XXXXX

They try to talk, they really do, but Dean is distracted. He listens as Sam talks about hunting Lilith, tracking some demons across Tennessee, and following them up to Pontiac. He shakes his head when Sam mentions getting payback, frowns when Sam says anything about killing a demon, and doesn’t meet his eyes, not once.

Eventually, they drink their way through what little alcohol Sam has, and Bobby offers to go on a beer run. Sam jumps at the chance to go with him, and Dean tells them to go, he’ll be fine here. He ought to sleep some, anyway. Sam and Bobby need time to talk, too, but Dean doesn’t mention that.

They’re about to leave when Bobby asks, “How you feeling, anyway?”

Dean gives him a look, trying to communicate that under no circumstances is he to tell Sam about any of his newfound demon powers. Bobby inclines his head, ordering Dean with his eyes to answer the question. “Fine, Bobby. How many times do I have to tell you, I’m still me?”

“Just wondering,” Bobby says defensively. 

“Well I’m fine. A little hungry, kind of thirsty, bone tired, but fine.”

“I’m just wondering!” 

“Yeah well stop wondering!” Dean shouts. He stops. He can taste metal again, and his heart is pounding. God, he hopes this temper problem doesn’t stick around. Bobby is staring at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. “Sorry,” Dean says past the growing lump in his throat. 

“We have to figure out what pulled you out,” Bobby breathes, and Dean nods.

“You know anybody who could help?” Sam asks. 

“A psychic, Pamela Barnes. We can get to her easily; she doesn’t live far,” Bobby offers. Dean thinks hard; he’s heard that name before. In hell, he often heard whispers of psychics and prophets. Meg was plugged in to all the good gossip, too, and she was always looking for a good time to offer some. He knew more about what the other demons did in their downtime than almost anyone.

“Then that’s what we’re gonna do,” Dean says. Bobby nods dutifully and Sam grabs his packed duffel bag from the floor at the foot of the bed. Beer run cancelled, the three prepare to drive all night if they have to.

XXXXX

Dean slides easily behind the wheel of his baby, the one thing he missed as much as Sam and Bobby. He sighs happily, rubbing the steering wheel in a way that is totally not creepy. Not creepy at all. He glances over at Sam, unused to being so close to another hum—person. 

There’s something very wrong with his car. 

“The hell is that?” Dean grates out, pointing at what appears to be an iPod jack. Oh, he’s suddenly regretting not killing his brother, and since when did he have such a temper? Are homicidal tendencies commonplace for demons? Meg never mentioned anything about it.

“IPod jack,” Sam answers distractedly. Dean glowers and—growls? He’s taken aback, slightly scared, and very surprised. Sam cocks his head and gives him a questioning look, to which Dean responds by ripping the iPod jack out and tossing it into the backseat. He needs some hard, hard, hard rock right now.

“Temper problems?” Sam asks. 

Dean chews his bottom lip, wincing when he hits a tender spot, probably where Sam hit him earlier. His throat hurts now, too. He’s never growled before. Maybe it’s just a demon thing, he thinks. Has he ever heard a demon growl before? Sure, they can usually make weird half-human sounds, but nothing as… _animalistic_ as the noise he just made. It was guttural, like a cornered wild cat, and inhuman. 

Sam’s still staring at him, and Dean realizes he asked a question. “Um, must be the hell rubbing off on me.” Sam seems to accept the answer, and Dean fiddles with the radio.

They speed out of the parking lot with _Highway to Hell_ ironically playing at full volume.

XXXXX

The ride is silent, with Dean spending most of his time wondering, pondering, and trying to use the cover of darkness to practice turning his eyes black on command. About halfway to wherever Bobby’s leading them, he manages to change them, and nearly swerves off the road in surprise at the sudden pain. Sam, having been asleep, startles awake for about two minutes, while Dean frantically focuses on puppies and rainbows to try and get his eyes human again. Sam’s asleep again after that, leaving Dean alone to continue practicing. 

By the time they reach their destination, he’s mastered it.

The house is nothing special: normal, picket fence, two stories, in need of a paint job. The woman that opens the door is anything but. She’s beautiful, all lean, muscular frame and black hair. There’s a smile plastered to her face, and Dean nearly retches at the happiness rolling of her.

“Bobby!” she exclaims, grabbing the old man in a tight hug. Dean and Sam exchange a surprised glance, but before either can say anything, Pamela is chattering away. “So good to see you! Are these the boys?”

Bobby sounds oddly proud when he says, “Yeah. Sam, Dean, this is Pamela Barnes, best damn psychic in the state.” The boys chorus greetings. 

Pamela looks Dean up and down, making an appraising noise in the back of her throat. “Dean Winchester,” she drawls. “Out of the fires and back in the frying pan, hm? Makes you one rare individual, my friend.”

“If you say so,” Dean says, and Pamela raises one eyebrow at him. She knows. He knows she knows from the way she isn’t getting too close to him, from the way her smile is pinched, from the curious tilt to her head.

“Oh, I say so,” she responds lightly, keeping up the flirty tone. She gestures for them to head on in. The house smells of incense, and it makes Dean’s skin crawl. “So, I Ouija’d my way through half a dozen spirits, and no one knows how you crawled out. You sure you didn’t just… leave the way other demons do?”

Dean’s heart stops, but Sam doesn’t seem to have noticed. Pamela’s gaze is apologetic when she looks at Dean again. He shakes his head slightly, and she nods. Yet again, the ability to read and exchange body language comes in handy.

“What’s next, then?” Sam asks.

“Séance, I think,” Pamela says, hugging herself. Dean bites his tongue to keep from making a snide remark. It’s getting harder and harder to be nice. He’s not sure how much longer he can go without saying something cruel. It’s like that time in Maryland, back when he was seventeen, when he was cursed to be as horrible as possible. He remembers making Sammy cry three times when he told him that no one loved him and that he was a freak. Eventually, Dad clubbed him over the head with a baseball bat; he woke up and the witch was dead, and he was no worse for wear except for a lump and an angry brother.

“Lead the way,” Dean says. Pamela nods, and heads to a back room, leaving the three men to follow her. She’s wearing low-cut jeans, and he can just barely see a tattoo peeking out from the top. He wants to ask what it is, but he refrains. He’s worried about what he might say.

The room she leads them to is dark, and dusty. Pamela goes straight to a table and whips off a cloth, raising a cloud of dust that makes Sam wrinkle his nose. Pamela laughs at his expression and crouches, gathering something off a shelf, and Dean can see the tattoo in full.

“’Jesse Forever?’” he asks.

Pamela giggles and looks up at him. “Well, he wasn’t forever.”

“His loss,” Dean replies, trying to sound more like his old self. It must not have worked; Pamela’s eyes widen and she teeters, nearly losing her balance. Dean curses his own stupidity. Of course she’s freaked out; he would be too if a demon started hitting on him. Or at least, he would have been.

“Come here, boy,” Bobby says gruffly. He grabs Dean by the collar and hauls him across the room, leaving Sam with Pamela. Dean sputters and growls involuntarily. He manages to stop himself before he flashes his eyes. It must be an instinctual thing.

“What?” Dean spits.

“Don’t you growl at me, boy,” Bobby warns. “I’ve exorcised more demons than you’ve seen yet.”

“Sorry. It’s just an instinct, I guess. My eyes go all black and creepy, and I just wanna rip some lungs out. Can’t be helped,” he says, trying for humor.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Whatever. When you planning on telling Sam?”

“I’m not,” Dean says simply, and is saved from arguing when Pamela calls them over to her table. She instructs them to sit down, still not quite meeting Dean’s eyes, and tells them to hold hands. Dean tries not to leer when he grasps his brother’s hand. He certainly does not need a freaked out brother right now.

Pamela runs her tongue over her lips and nods once, satisfied. She smiles nervously, though Dean can tell she’s hiding it well. The only reason he can see the wariness is because he can sense it too. It’s like a sixth sense. He can feel good, evil, and weakness. Must be a demon thing.

“I, uh, I need to touch something our monster touched,” Pamela says nervously.

Dean nods and rolls back his sleeve, ignoring Sam’s gasp. Pamela nods once and fits her hand over the raised pink scar. It tingles where she touches it. He shifts in his seat, vaguely uncomfortable, but not willing to remove her hand. They make eye contact and he can see the wariness he can plainly feel.

“I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle,” Pamela says, eyes shut and head tilted back. Dean swallows hard against sudden nausea. “I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.”

“Pam,” Dean mutters, an ache taking up residence in his shoulder, one reminiscent of the feeling he got back in the gas station.

Pamela shakes her head wildly. “I almost got it! I invoke, conjure and command you, appear unto me before this—Castiel?”

Dean starts. The word is familiar, strangely so, but at the same time utterly foreign. It sends a shiver down his spine, raises a layer of goose bumps on his skin. The name spears him right in the forehead, jolting him with a tiny shock of pain. He doesn’t wince.

“Castiel? No, sorry, Castiel. I don’t scare easily,” Pamela says. Dean frowns. The name hurts every time. It’s as if someone were poking him with a needle, right in the center of his forehead, and digging it in deeper every time Castiel is mentioned.

“I think maybe we should stop,” Dean says, feeling lightheaded now. He’s going to throw up, he can feel it. His head hurts, and his stomach turns, and he’s going to faint or fall over or die, and all he can think is that séances are not fun places for demons to be. He should have anticipated this.

“No, hold on,” Pam replies fiercely, squeezing her eyes tighter and crinkling her forehead. She sticks her tongue out slightly, concentrating. “I invoke, conjure and command--!”

She screams. Dean screams. Pam throws her head back, wailing, but Dean isn’t looking. His eyes go black and he bites down, hard, on his tongue. Blood fills his mouth, just as intense pain fills his every inch. He feels like he’s been electrocuted, set on fire, and hit by a car all at once. It’s worse than hell, worse than being tortured, worse than anything he’s ever experienced. He wants to crawl into a hole, to curl up and lick his wounds until he inevitably dies. Agony sings through his veins, piercing the very fabric of his ravaged soul. 

Sam rips his hand from his, darting to Pamela’s side. Dean dimly hears Bobby and Sam shouting, Pam crying, and he knows he should react. He wants to, he really does, but he’s frozen. He can’t move. Pain continues to rocket through him, locking his muscles into place, rendering him immobile. 

Black rings Dean’s vision. He sways, and he knows he’s going to pass out. He can feel it coming on like a summer rainstorm, just barely noticeable, and invisible to the unpracticed eye. He blinks once, twice, thrice, and hits the floor. The last thing he hears is Sam shouting his name.

XXXXX

Dean comes to on a shabby, threadbare couch. He groans and pushes his face deeper into the lumpy pillow. There’s a scratchy blanket covering him, and he’s freezing. He curls his limbs closer to his torso and forces one eye open.

Sam is asleep on the bed. There are two in the room, and the other is messed up as if someone was sleeping on it, presumably Bobby. Dean doesn’t know where they are, but the room reminds him of the motel he found Sam in. There are mirrors on the ceiling, and mirrors all around, so it’s most likely a rent-a-stripper joint. When Dean looks up, five other Deans stare back at him. He smirks at one reflection and watches as the expression falls flat.

“Dean.” Dean whips his head up, glancing wildly for the owner of the voice, eyes involuntarily stinging. It takes a few seconds for him to register that it’s Bobby, and once he does he calms down. Bobby is standing in the doorway, haloed by the dim fluorescent light from the hall. “You awake?”

“Yeah,” Dean groans. He sits up and rubs his head, sighing heavily. The pounding in his head rivals that of the heaviest hangover. “What happened?”

Bobby shakes his head and enters the room, closing the door quietly so as to not wake Sam. Dean watches as the older man crosses the room. He moves his legs so Bobby can sit on the worn couch, pulling the blanket closer. Why is it so cold?

“Something must’ve went wrong, Dean. Very, very wrong. Pamela… the thing she was trying to get a look at, it burned her eyes out.” Bobby shakes his head. Dean stares.

“It >em>what?” he demands.

“Burned her eyes out, flames and all. God, boy, it was awful. She was screaming and you were yelling… it was like someone was killing you both, slow and painful. Sam called the ambulance, and we got you out of there. Your ears were bleeding and your eyes went black… you growled at me a couple times.”

“Did Sam…?”

“No, I made him stay with Pam. Good thing, too, because you started shouting at me, some language I’ve never hear before. Sounded… demonic,” Bobby says with a shudder. Dean refrains from mentioning that he himself is demonic, and that if demonic languages make Bobby shudder, why was he sitting next to Dean?

“Well, last I checked, I only speak English and a little bit of Spanish,” Dean says lightly. Bobby opens his mouth to reprimand him, but Sam stirs before he gets a chance. Bobby settles for giving him his trademark _you’re-such-an-idiot_ glare.

“Dean?” Sam asks, voice thick with sleep. 

“Yep,” Dean says. Sam hums contentedly and burrows deeper into the blankets. Dean and Bobby roll their eyes in tandem. “Don’t you dare go back to sleep on me, Sammy.”

“Not,” Sam grunts, making no effort to get up. Dean huffs a laugh and stands, stretching his arms over his head until his joints pop and crackle. Sam rolls over onto his back, blinking dazedly up at the ceiling and coughing. Dean crosses the room and flops onto the bed next to his brother, who quickly scoots over to make more room.

“Thanks for putting me on the lumpy couch,” Dean says, grabbing fistfuls of the blanket currently tangled around Sam’s freakishly long limbs and pulling. He sighs, kicking at Sam’s leg until his brother relinquishes some of the blanket. Dean grins and settles the blanket around him, pleased with its slightly-less-scratchy-than-usual-ness. 

“Jerk,” Sam mutters, protectively hugging his pillow, probably so Dean won’t steal it.

“Bitch,” Dean retorts. 

“You idjits planning on cuddling all day, or can we get something done?” Bobby mutters.

“Don’t be such a spoil-sport, Bobby,” Dean laughs. “That was the first time I’ve slept through the night in years. I’m allowed to be a little content right now.” Bobby sighs and mutters something about idjits and getting a beer, and leaves.

Sam snorts and rolls away from Dean. Dean, in retaliation, rolls towards his brother. Sam laughs and keeps rolling, and Dean follows. Within seconds, Sam is perched precariously on the very edge of the bed with Dean grinning evilly at him. Sam’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to shout a protest, but before he can get anything out, Dean lays one hand against his chest and pushes.

Sam falls to the floor with a thud and a shrill noise of fear. Dean laughs hysterically, leaning over the edge and leering at his brother. Sam glares good-naturedly and kicks his legs, trying to untangle the blanket from them. At the same time, both brothers stop and realize where this is going. Sam, grinning, tugs the blanket experimentally. Dean, shaking his head frantically, can feel his legs being pulled toward the edge.

“Sammy, I will kill you,” Dean warns, but he knows it’s not true. This time, all he wants to do is to laugh, club Sam around the head once, and go get something to eat. That primal need for blood and death seems to have subsided. 

“So do it,” Sam replies, and yanks hard on the blanket. Dean flails and scrabbles, trying to stay on the bed, but fails. He slips off the edge and falls, hard, on top of Sam. He angles himself so that when he hits, his elbow is driven into Sam’s gut. Sam coughs and rolls away, leaving Dean winded on the floor.

“You jerk,” Sam groans, clutching his stomach. Dean laughs savagely, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Bitch,” Dean replies. Sam laughs breathlessly, and Dean echoes him. It’s been a long time since he could joke around with someone like this. In hell, he would have been slaughtered for even trying. Well, he could have tried messing around with Meg, but she would always win. Even before he died, Sam was always too bummed out for Dean to even want to try and mess with him, for fear of making it worse. Between Jess dying and Dad dying and Dean’s deal, there just wasn’t enough happiness to lead to any horseplay.

“I hate you,” Sam mutters.

“I know. Come on, let’s go get something to eat,” Dean says, climbing slowly to his feet. He holds a hand out for Sam to grab ahold of. Sam grips his hand and uses it to get painstakingly to his feet. Once he’s up he swings for Dean’s face, not letting go of his hand. Handless and defenseless, Dean can’t block the punch. Luckily, it’s just a playful smack, or he’d be down for the count. 

“You’re going to be murdered in you sleep,” Dean scolds, pushing Sam away. Sam laughs as he fetches up against the wall. Together the brothers stumble down the hall, giggling and fighting all the way to the parking lot. They only stop when Dean starts the car, and are still grinning ear to ear when they speed away.

XXXXX

Of course they order pie, and of course the waitress is taking forever to bring it out. The diner is small and empty, nice and homey, if a little cold. Sam, the moron, takes his jacket off and hangs it on the back of his chair. Dean glares at him until Sam, confused, asks why.

“Because it’s freezing in here, dammit,” Dean says. 

Sam frowns. “No, Dean, it’s sweltering. I’m sweating, look,” he says, and holds up his arm. There’s a tiny patch of moisture there at the crease. Dean shrugs and tilts his head back, looking for the waitress. She still hasn’t returned with his pie.

“Maybe I’m just used to hot temperatures, or something,” Dean says. Sam nods, seeming to accept it. Honestly, Dean doesn’t know if it’s true or not. Meg never mentioned becoming more sensitive to cold. Maybe she didn’t think it important. 

Dean’s about to reply when their waitress saunters up, a plate of pie in each hand. Dean grins at her and tries to look inviting; she’s cute. The waitress doesn’t respond, just sets down their pie and walks away. Dean furrows his brow and wonders if he’s ever going to get laid again. When he looks back, Sam is smirking at him.

“Eat your pie,” Dean instructs, waving a fork at his brother. Sam doesn’t say a word, just picking up his fork and sticking it into his slice. His cell phone rings before he can eat it. With a groan, Sam heads off to take the call someplace more private.

Dean sighs and stares forlornly down at his pie. He’s really not that hungry. He hasn’t been, not since coming back from the grave. Hopefully, that’ll subside too. A life without pie is not one he’s interested in living for very long. 

The waitress is back, cruel smile on her lips and evil glint in her eye. Dean can feel the evil pulsating from her thin figure, and he leans back in his chair to get further away. Underneath Flo the waitress, he can now see a hideous, twisted face. How could he have not seen it sooner?

“You’re a hunter,” she says. 

Oh, so she doesn’t know who he is. Dean wonders if he can use her uninformed status to his advantage. His brain works it out before he’s even done wondering if it’s possible. If she doesn’t know who he is, and thinks he’s just another demon, he’s more likely to get out alive. All he has to do is flash his eyes.

And so he does. The effect is immediate. Flo—or at least, the demon inside Flo—steps back, grin vanishing, replaced with a startled _O_. “Sorry,” she purrs, face forming back into a seductive smile. “Didn’t see you in there.”

“No problem,” he says. Flo bats her lashes and looks down, lazy smile spreading wider. Dean’s voice is hard, threatening, cold, and leaves no room for argument when he says, “Just don’t do it again.”

The seductiveness is gone in a flash, and indignant surprise takes over. In just one conversation, Flo’s face has covered half of the range of emotion. Dean would laugh if it weren’t absolutely imperative that he keep a straight, stern face. If he cracks, Flo might realize that’s he’s just a lowly Torturer, one of the lowest types of demons you can be. Luckily, she retreats without another word.

Dean picks at his pie in silence for a few minutes, mentally congratulating himself on a deception well done. He’s bored, and on edge, but that doesn’t take away the little trill of excitement that always accompanies subterfuge. 

Sam comes back with a frown. He sits in his chair and bites his bottom lip, pocketing his cell phone. “So, that was Bobby. Pam’s out of ICU. She’s blind, but she’ll live.”

“Great,” Dean replies through a mouthful of pie. “Now we don’t have to worry about her. We can go kill the son of a bitch who did it.”

“Dean,” Sam says incredulously. “You can’t be serious. Pamela looked at it, and it burned her eyes out. We can’t go after it. We’ll die.”

“We’ll be fine,” Dean says dismissively. He waves a hand through the air to punctuate his statement. Sam seems horrified, or maybe just skeptical. “Trust me, there’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Dean, you’ve only been alive for about two days. I think we should lay low for a while. You know, until the hype dies down,” Sam insists. Dean rolls his eyes and sighs. He makes a big show of giving in, but in actuality, he’s busy deciding how to go about doing this on his own.

XXXXX

Dean blinks himself awake, rubbing at his face and stretching his legs. He must have fallen asleep when they got back to the motel, Sam satisfied that Dean wouldn’t do anything stupid and Dean plotting to do exactly that. 

The TV is on. He cocks his head and stares at, confused, as the last tendrils of sleep dissolve into mist. The radio is on the fritz too. Suddenly remembering the little fill-up joint he’d come upon after being resurrected, he leaps out of bed, grabbing the shotgun he keeps by it, and stands in the center of the room, eye trained on the door. At any second, he might have to fight for his life. 

There’s a ringing sound, same as in the gas station, that pierces through him, into his very core. It’s like the pain he felt when Pamela was doing her séance, rocketing and singing through him, tensing his legs and pushing his brain into survival mode. 

“What the hell?” Dean shouts, clutching his shotgun in one hand and clamping the other over his ear. The ringing gets louder, more intense, and he has to stifle a scream. Every atom in him is alive with pain, white-hot and blinding. He crouches, doubling over instinctually, to protect the more vital organs. 

The ringing increases, and then he does scream. He hasn’t screamed in ten years, and now he has to. He can’t not scream. The pain, the agony, the pure torture of it is too much. He falls to his knees, still screaming, and drops his gun in favor of covering the other ear. 

He hears cracking, and looks up. The mirror on the ceiling has one perfect, thin fracture running across its length. It doesn’t take a genius to know what’s coming.

Dean throws himself sideways, only stopping screaming when he lands on his chest and has all the wind knocked out of him. He was just in time, too; at once, glass shatters and falls down like snow during a blizzard, covering every surface and digging into his arms. He barely feels it. It’s like being pinched when your leg is broken in ten different places. 

He can’t take it anymore.

For the second time in as many days, Dean Winchester passes out.

XXXXX

He comes to in Bobby’s car this time. They’re moving, going at least ten miles over the speed limit, and Bobby is driving. Sam is nowhere to be seen, so he must still be out. Dean groans at the pain in his head. It feels like someone stuck an egg beater inside and put it on high and forgot it there for six weeks. 

“Morning, kid,” Bobby says from the driver’s seat. Dean resists the urge to give him the finger. He rubs the side of his head and his hand comes away red and wet. Blood is trickling from his ear. He wipes his hand on his jeans and digs around in the glove compartment. Victorious, he rubs at the dried blood with the rag he found.

“We need to find this thing,” Dean says. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Sam will never go for it,” Bobby retorts. It’s clear he won’t go for it either. 

In response, Dean pulls out his cell phone and dials Sam’s number. No answer. He clears his throat and leaves a message. “Hey, Sammy. Me and Bobby went out for a drink. Don’t call back; I’ll be too drunk to answer, and you remember last time I drunk-dialed you. Remember that? I told you about Veronica, in Montana. See you in the morning, and if I don’t, come bail me out.”

“What was that?” Bobby demands. 

“We’re going to find this thing. Sam’ll just slow us down,” Dean replies, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

The older hunter splutters. “Dean, you’ll get us killed! If it does that to you without even being there with you, imagine what it’ll do if we summon it!”

“Hm, I was thinking of tracking it, but summoning is good too. C’mon, we need a location. Something you can spray-paint sigils in without being noticed.”

Their location is an abandoned barn that’s only ten minutes away. With a little coaxing, Bobby finally agrees to help him summon whatever this thing is. Dean can sense the trepidation surrounding Bobby, and he doesn’t blame him. He feels it too, just more muted. Maybe it’s a demon thing too.

Bobby gathers bottles of spray-paint from the trunk while Dean surveys the barn. He flicks his eyes a few times just to make sure he can still do it. The stinging seems to have subsided now, too. Hopefully the pain and anger were just side effects of being a demon thrust unsuspectingly into a life on Earth.

The door to the barn creaks when Dean pushes against it. The barn itself is empty, concrete floor devoid of anything but dust and mud. Bobby goes right to work, painting a large devil’s trap on the wall next to the door. Dean gulps. He’d forgotten about the devil’s traps.

“Hey, Bobby, can we maybe keep the devil’s traps away from me?” Dean hedges.

“Yeah, but there’s a ton of other crap I’m planning on putting on these walls, and most of it could kill you. Stand in the corner there,” Bobby answers, pointing to the far corner. Dean, grumbling, goes to do as he was told. He crosses him arms and leans against the wall, kicking the floor with the toe of his boot. He watches Bobby paint sigil after sigil in thick, black paint. He gets more and more nervous as time goes by, painfully aware that he’s slowly being hemmed in. 

“Don’t just stand there being all lurky, boy,” Bobby chides. “Say something.”

“Lurky isn’t a word,” Dean deadpans.

Bobby chuckles. “Something interesting. How’s life as a demon?”

“Pretty good,” Dean answers. “My eyes hurt like a bitch when they go black, and I’m probably going to get caught in at least one of these traps when I try to leave, but overall, I’m peachy.”

“Great.”

The conversation stops there for a while, but something’s been eating at Dean for a while now. “Hey, why’d you believe it was me, anyway? Right away, you knew I was me, and not some other demon. I mean, I was just there, alive and demonic, and you just accepted it. Why not kill me, or exorcise me?”

“Should I have?” Silence. Bobby sighs and says, “I knew it was you because no demon I’ve ever met acted so terrified of being ganked.”

“I was _not_ scared,” Dean mutters, drawing a smiley face in the dust with his boot.

Bobby stands on his toes to reach the top of the warding sigil he’s drawing, not turning to look at Dean. “Boy, you used a chair as a barricade. Only folks I’ve ever seen that did it while singing, and then they all died.”

Dean wonders if Bobby’s going senile. “What?”

“It’s a musical, boy,” Bobby grumbles. Dean snorts, and Bobby shakes the can. “Don’t make me paint you into a trap. I don’t have any problems with doing that.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me, boy, I would. Go get the stuff we need from the car, would you?”

Dean laughs and they fall back into companionable silence, Bobby showing off his artistic skills and Dean showing off his lack of them. The smiley face in the dust gets wiped out and replaced with a frowning one. He draws an arrow pointing to it, and writes his name on the other end of the arrow. He smirks down at it and scuffs it out with his heel, before remembering that he’s supposed to be gathering weapons. Luckily, Bobby’s left a path that, if he’s lithe enough, Dean should be able to use to get to and from the car.

Only once does Bobby get too close for Dean’s comfort. He sprays a devil’s trap on the wall about two feet away, and Dean takes a step back. Bobby glances at him apologetically and doesn’t finish the trap. Dean watches carefully after that, making sure there’s a three-foot space of nothing between himself and any paint.

Finally, they’re finished, Dean having assembled everything they need and Bobby having coated the barn with traps, talismans, sigils, and symbols from every major religion out there, and a few from some that aren’t. Bobby grumbles about his back, and Dean shrugs at him. He would have helped if he could, Bobby knows that. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Have to. If I don’t, this thing’ll kill me,” Dean says, running his finger across the blade of his demon-killing knife. He really shouldn’t be carrying it around, he thinks. He might fall on it, or have it stolen and used against him, or accidently roll over on it if he falls asleep in the Impala. It’s not safe. Then again, _safe_ and _Winchesters_ don’t usually go together, unless the words _are_ and _not_ are in between. 

“Whatever you say,” Bobby says, and cross to the table they’d set up next to Dean’s corner. There are two tables; one full of weapons of all shapes and functions, another with the summoning ritual laid out on it.

Bobby sprinkles something into a bowl, and chants under his breath in Latin. Dean holds his breath, clutching his knife and watching the door. They’d laid a piece of wood across the doors to keep them from opening, but that doesn’t mean they won’t.

Nothing happens. 

Dean sits on the table, minding the anti-possession symbol—much like the one on his chest—etched onto it. He sets the knife point-down on the table and twirls it, watching the little wood shavings pile up around the tip. Still, nothing happens.

“You sure you did it right?” Dean asks.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Bobby retorts. Dean’s about to reply scathingly when there’s a bump on the ceiling. Then another, and another, and another, until he realizes that the slats on the roof are thumping against each other wildly. There’s a strike of thunder, and the wind howls like a caged animal being torn to shreds by larger, angrier caged animal.

“The wind?” Dean says hopefully. Bobby shakes his head, grim and serious. Dean takes a defensive position, knife held out toward the door, as the lights in the barn go out one by one, shattering and exploding in fantastic showers of sparks that flow down to settle on the floor like fireflies.

The door bangs open, two-by-fours splintering against the sheer force of whatever’s on the other side. Dean and Bobby share a worried glance before Bobby cocks his gun, holding it up to fire.

Standing in the doorway is a man. Just a regular man, thin and angry-looking, wearing a trench coat and suit underneath. He’s got mussed dark hair and startlingly blue eyes, and he’s staring at Dean as if he’s the scum of the Earth. The aura coming off of him is enough to make Dean see spots. It’s so strong, so purely _good,_ that Dean wants to throw up. It physically hurts, this man’s presence.

Bobby fires. The man doesn’t flinch, just walks closer, serene expression on his face. Bobby fires again, and Dean exchanges his knife for a gun, joining in. Still the man doesn’t react, treating the bullets as if there were none. For all the good they’re doing, there might as well not be. 

They stop shooting. The man is right in front of them now, close enough that Dean can taste the goodness in the air. It tastes like sugar, and flowers, and lemons, and it’s one of the worst things he’s ever encountered.

Desperate and in pain, Dean grabs his knife and plunges it hilt-deep into the man’s ribcage. The man-shaped thing (because there is no way in hell this is a man) tilts his head like a confused puppy and grasps the hilt, pulling. 

The bloody knife comes out with a sickening pop.

“Who are you?” Dean demands.

When the man speaks, his voice is gravel grating against metal, sandpaper being rubbed together. “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.” 

Bobby’s got a tire iron or something, and he swings it, using all his strength to plow the iron rod into the back of the man’s head. In the instant before it hits, the man swivels, grabs the tire iron, and uses his momentum to bring his other arm up, gently placing two fingers against Bobby’s forehead. Bobby goes down, sprawled on the floor.

The man looks back up at Dean, still with that damned peaceful expression, and says, “We need to talk, Dean. Alone.” 

Dean bends down to help Bobby, but dammit, the guy fell right in the middle of a devil’s trap. Dean decides it doesn’t matter; if Castiel—and obviously, that’s who this is—wants to take him somewhere, he’ll let him out. Dean feels for a pulse.

He can’t find one.

Bobby isn’t breathing, or moving, or anything, really. Dean glances between Castiel and Bobby, not sure if he’s horrified or terrified. His eyes hurt, and he wishes he hadn’t stepped into the trap. He can’t kill this bastard from within it.

“Your friend is alive,” Castiel says, casually, and he’s got a book in his hands that he’s leafing through, and he doesn’t even seem to care about any of this, and Dean can’t handle it. All of the careful restraint keeping his eyes from darkening, every ounce of self-control, flies out the window.

When he glares up at Castiel, his eyes are black.

Castiel drops the book. It thuds against the floor dully, pages crinkling and spine bending. He takes a step back, and how funny is it that this powerful being, this thing that can knock someone out by touching them and blow doors off barns and call up freak windstorms, is afraid of one little lowly demon?

“No,” Castiel breathes, his deep voice full of shock and disbelief. Dean stands, leaving Bobby’s unconscious body, and stands at the very edge of the devil’s trap, all uneasiness forgotten. He glares and growls deep in his throat, and Castiel takes another step back.

“Yes,” Dean hisses. From the back of his mind, the still-human part of him is screaming at him to stop doing this and go back to being just Dean. The rest, however, is a rabid dog, straining at the end of its chain, foaming at the mouth and baying for blood. 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Castiel whispers, and Dean laughs.

“Forty years is a long time, buddy,” he spits. 

Castiel flinches as if struck. “No, I was in time, I got to you before you were turned, I made certain of it.”

“You didn’t do a very good job then,” Dean scoffs. “What are you anyway, some kind of upper demon? A Knight, maybe, or one of the ones constantly squabbling over who’s in charge?”

“I’m an angel of the lord,” Castiel says, pulling some of his cool, calculated expression back on. Dean really laughs then, and he can tell how unsettled the “angel” is. Just to mess with him, Dean puts a hand against the outer rim of the devil’s trap. The invisible barrier is cool to the touch, and smooth like glass. Castiel glances at Dean’s hand warily.

“And I’m the President, pal,” Dean drawls.

In response, Castiel draws himself up, standing ramrod-straight. For a second Dean thinks he’s gone too far, that he’s about to get a knife shoved into his ribcage instead of the other way around, but Castiel makes no move to come closer.

The light shining in the windows flickers, and in the shadow Dean can see two massive wings spreading from Castiel’s back. He sucks in a surprised breath, eyes flickering. Castiel tilts his head again, and the lights stop flashing. 

“So you’re an angel, and I’m a demon,” Dean says. “Guess what comes next.”

He tightens his grip on his knife.


	2. Are You There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever to write, and for that I apologize. I'm hoping to start posting more regularly now.
> 
> Also, I'm beginning to think that this is alternately titled Maybe It's A Demon Thing, because that seems to be Dean's train of thought. Demons are just fun to write, I suppose.

“So what do you think it was, then, if not an angel?” Sam demands. 

Dean throws his hands up in the air, completely exasperated. It’s bad enough he didn’t get to fight. No, the “angel” just vanished, leaving behind an empty barn and an unconscious Bobby who took hours to wake up and get Dean out of the devil’s trap.

“I don’t know, Sam,” Dean says for the fourth time.

Sam grumbles and flips through the book on his lap. “Just saying, what else could it have been? A demon?”

Dean forces a laugh. “Yeah Sammy, a demon.”

“But it was immune to salt rounds, and devil’s traps, and Ruby’s knife!” Sam insists, glaring at Dean with one of his favorite bitchfaces. Dean sighs and shakes his head. He’s too jittery to be holding such a serious conversation. He’s been keyed up ever since the not-fight, blood pumping faster than need be and senses straining to find any threat that could possibly need to be dealt with.

“I don’t know, Sam. Maybe I really did get groped by an angel,” Dean says with a sigh. He does his best to look sarcastic, but he can tell from the unconvinced look on his brother’s face that he failed. Oh well. Deception ought to get easier as he adjusts to life as a demon.

“I’m just saying, Dean, you can’t tell me there aren’t angels just because no one has seen one. Maybe you were the first!” Sam insists. Dean rolls his eyes and breathes deeply. His brother should start being careful soon. A demon can’t be held responsible for something he does while not in complete control of himself.

“Whatever, Sam,” he grumbles, and sniffs at a box of pizza that probably should have been thrown away a month ago. 

From the other room, Bobby shouts, “So are you two dumbasses going to keep arguing religion, or are you going to come check this out?”

Sam and Dean exchange a look—angry and frustrated on Sam’s part, carefully controlled fury on Dean’s—and avoid each other’s personal space when they walk over to where Bobby has been pouring over dusty tomes all morning. He turns a book and plants a finger on the illustration, glaring up at them, eyes focused mainly on Dean with an appraising, evaluating glint in them. He does his best to ignore it and tells himself that Bobby has every right to be suspicious. After all, there’s a demon in his house, and he has no certain way of knowing that it isn’t hostile.

“There’s stacks of lore on them,” he says, shifting his gaze onto the book. “Biblical, post-biblical, pre-biblical, some of it’s even in cuneiform. All evidence points to angels being real as you and me.”

Dean scoffs, but Sam takes that as an extra incentive to press his point. “See, Dean, it’s possible. I mean, if demons and other monsters are real, why not angels?”

“Because why should there be?” he fires back, blatantly ignoring the fact that his brother just unwittingly referred to him as a monster. If he let that get to him, he’d have to acknowledge the other heaps of vile things demons as a whole have been called in the past, and that’s a load of crap he isn’t willing to burrow into quite yet. “Why would an angel pull me out hell? Why would God—if there even is one—want me out? Me.”

Sam shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters if that you’re out.”

There’s a hope in Sam’s eyes that hasn’t been there since Dad was on a hunting trip and hadn’t been home in a few days, a hope that died along with the pretty blonde girl whose name Sam still couldn’t bring himself to mention unless under extreme duress. It makes Dean want to leave and never return, because it’s his fault that hope died at all. But, of course, he can’t leave, because now it’s his fault that it’s back, and leaving would only serve to kill it all over again.

Bobby clears his throat and thrusts a thick book at Sam. “Sam, why don’t you take this and see if you can find a translation key in the basement? Me and Dean will get started on the English ones.”

Sam nods and takes the book, not complaining about being given the Latin to translate because he knows that it’s sort of become his specialty. Bobby waits until he’s gone to fix his gaze on Dean, curious and slightly irritated.

“I think it makes sense,” he says.

“Angels?” Dean scoffs.

Bobby nods. “Maybe that’s why the holy water didn’t work on you. You’d been touched by an angel, and some of its holiness got transferred to you. That would also explain the handprint.”

Dean nods, giving it a thought. It would make sense. It would even explain why the so-called angel didn’t realize he was a demon until it was almost too late. He rolls the idea around in his head, kicks it off a few walls, places it under a microscope, and finally decides that it might be plausible, maybe.

“Maybe,” he allows. “But I still don’t like it.”

“You aren’t supposed to like it, boy. You’re a demon, after all. Can you even like things?” Bobby teases, and Dean flips him off playfully. A touch of mirth comes into Bobby’s eyes, though his mouth doesn’t move, not even when he selects the thickest, dustiest book on his pile and hands it to Dean. “Get reading. We have a lot of research to catch up on.”

XXXXX

Sam is gone when Dean wakes up the next morning and pads down the hall in his boxers. Bobby is already up and outside doing something to a beat-up old Honda. Dean, grumbling, winces against the harsh sunlight and wonders if the myth about demons avoiding daylight might actually have some weight to it. He goes downstairs cautiously, wondering why it would only bother him now.

Bobby comes in just as Dean’s sniffing some eggs, trying to decide whether or not they’re worth attempting to scramble. The look on Bobby’s face tells him not to try it. He puts them back in the fridge and takes a seat at the kitchen table, hoping Bobby doesn’t open the curtains that Dean had had to close before he could handle being in the room long.

Unfortunately, Bobby opens the curtains, and Dean hisses involuntarily. “Close those, will you? The lights hurts my eyes.”

“You sure you’re not a vampire instead?” Bobby says, scrutinizing him. 

Dean shakes his head humorlessly, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. The temper problems still haven’t gone away. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it. All the others do, don’t they?”

“Either that or they get really good contact lenses,” Bobby grouches, and sits across from Dean. “Sam left to go shopping this morning. When he gets back, I’d like to go visit a hunter friend of mine. Olivia Lowry. I’ve been calling her all morning and she hasn’t picked up.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea for me to go with you?” Dean asks, eyes downcast. He’s suddenly thinking of all the places it’s unlikely he’ll ever be able to safely visit. Anywhere other than Bobby’s house is quickly becoming off-limits. He never knows when he’ll run into some salt, or iron, or a priest. 

“Better idea than leaving you here. You never know when the angel is going to come back for you.”

Dean agrees bitterly and heads off to find proper clothing. When Sam finally pulls up, he takes the driver’s seat. The engine purrs when he presses the gas, gently urging the car to challenge speed limits and fishtail around curves. More than once Sam urges him to slow down, and he complies, but only for a minute before he’s off again, enjoying the freedom and speed and danger of it all. It never mattered before, but now, the tiny thrill of doing something that could get him killed is like injecting something wonderful into his veins, liquid happiness to chase away the darkness for a short period of time. It’s fantastic. 

The house is small and unassuming, exactly the way a hunter would live. There is a salt line across the door, but Bobby breaks it with his foot without alerting Sam, accepting Dean’s silent nod of thanks without letting on to the ulterior motive. The three creep into the house, Bobby softly calling the hunter’s name.

Dean can smell blood long before it hits the others, though at first he can’t identify it for what it is. Gone is the rusty smell of iron, the stomach-churning tang of salt and gore. It’s replaced with sweetness, a sugary, warm thing that curls around him in thin tendrils, caressing its way into his mind and implanting itself there, reminiscent of everything good in the world, making his mouth water and his eyes sting just the slightest bit. 

He thinks that Olivia might have had some really fucking good air fresheners, at first, but then they see the body. Her ribcage is mangled, bones popping through the pale skin of her torso, eyes frozen wide with pain and fear and shock. Dean hears Sam’s shocked intake of breath and Bobby’s clomping footsteps as he leaves in a hurry, but Dean’s eyes are glued to the body, that rich smell invading his personal space in all the right ways. 

“Oh my God,” Sam murmurs, and takes a step toward the body. It snaps Dean back to reality, back to the homey little place with the horrifically blood-flecked décor and the murdered woman on the living room floor. Sam kneels next to her, but Dean can’t get more than a foot in the direction of the body. He hits an invisible barrier and stumbles back, glancing down to see a white line across the threshold. He almost growls in frustration.

“Salt line,” he observes, wishing that Sam had broken it accidentally on the way in. He points to the open weapons cabinet. “And an EMF.”

Sam looks up, eyes wide and slightly haunted. “Spirit activity?”

“On steroids, maybe,” Dean murmurs, eyes glued to the corpse. Her organs are out of place and her bones are poking through her flesh, blood spilling out onto the floor in a haphazard arrangement. It was a messy murder. Dean can list at least a dozen ways that it could have been cleaner, better, more efficient.

He stops himself there, feeling a small lurch in his stomach when he realizes that he’s entirely indifferent to the bloody scene before him and is actually mentally making it a cleaner kill. He avoids Sam’s gaze, the stinging in his eyes only getting worse. At least they haven’t gone black yet, he thinks, attempting to look on the bright side of things.

Bobby’s back, face pale and slightly clammy.

“You alright?” Sam asks, though he obviously isn’t.

Bobby nods, holding out his cell phone. “I called some other hunters.”

“Good, we could use the help,” Dean says, glancing between the body and Bobby’s stricken face. The poor old man looks like he’s going to collapse any second. If Dean hadn’t known him for years, he’d have assumed Bobby was going into shock. But Bobby Singer is a tough old bastard, and throws the shock off like it’s nothing, getting down to business with a drive that most athletes can only wish for.

“Except… they aren’t answering either,” he mutters, shrugging as if he’s at a complete loss.

Dean sighs heavily and rubs a hand across his face. “I’ll call a few of them on my phone, to see if they were just avoiding your calls. We can go by the ones in the area. Make sure they’re alright.”

Bobby agrees and tosses his phone to Dean, contacts list already open

XXXXX

They aren’t alright, of course.

Another body awaits them at each house they visit, that warm spell hanging in the air like smoke, heady and cloying and sweeter than any smell has a right to be. Dean hovers anxiously outside of each salt line, fervently hoping Sam doesn’t notice him acting strangely. At every scene it’s the same; salt across the threshold, EMF and guns out, terror and pain etched eternally onto yet another still, cold face. 

By the time they finish all six houses, Dean’s head hurts and there’s a migraine beginning to make its home right behind his eyes. He can barely see straight, but he still insists on driving, and is shot down immediately because apparently, Sam can tell when his brother is a few minutes away from collapsing. 

Dean doesn’t register falling asleep, but the nightmares make sure he knows he isn’t awake. There’s a brief moment of agony and red and blood and grit and smoke and chilling laughter, and then Dean is jerking awake, breath coming in huge, panicked gasps, eyes alight with agony. Sam is gone.

They’re at a gas station, so he assumes that Sam just went in to use the bathroom. Dean does his best to calm himself, because his eyes are black and Sam will be back shortly, and he doesn’t think he could pretend to be asleep again. He’s afraid of falling asleep again.

 

Slowly, the pain in his eyes lessens, and his heart calms.

Sam doesn’t return for a few minutes, and Dean starts to worry. The car is still running, so Sam obviously hadn’t expected to be in there this long. A quick glance into the gas station tells him that Sam isn’t stuck in line behind an old lady buying too much cheap cat food. So whatever’s keeping him is probably something to worry about, but he’s not going to allow himself to actually start to feel it for another few minutes.

The seconds pass quickly, ticking by in a whirlwind of electronic numbers on the dashboard that change much faster that he remembers them changing before. Maybe time just passes differently now that his body technically runs according to a much slower time table. Which reminds him, demons are technically capable to living forever, so long as they aren’t actually killed. And that opens up a whole new can of worms that he doesn’t think he’s ready to process yet, because holy shit, theoretical immortality. 

He stops thinking and elects to go after Sam instead, because it’s been ten minutes since he woke up, and that’s more than enough time to do whatever it was Sam was planning on doing. Unless he’s hooking up with some random chick he met in the gas station, in which case Dean doesn’t feel too bad about interrupting. One should never do a person they just met at a gas station in said gas station. It’s unsanitary and who knows what kinds of diseases you could get.

He grabs his shotgun and creeps around to the back, where the bathroom doors are, and puts his ear against the one designated for men. There’s a loud crash and a pained grunt that he can instantly recognize as Sam’s. He listens for another thirty seconds, hearing three more bangs and crashes, but no sounds from any other people that may or may not have been in there with Sam. 

Dean cocks his gun, surveys the ground for anything that would impede a demon from entering, and kicks the door in. Sam is on the floor, gasping and slightly bloodied, with a dark shape looming above him. Dean doesn’t think. He fires the gun, searing pain singing through his eyes. He shuts them tightly and pretends that the shotgun had an intense recoil, filling his mind with images of happy shit like puppies and rainbows in the hopes that maybe they’ll go back to normal.

Sam grunts, and Dean’s eyes still burn. Judging by the intensity of it, they’re going to be black as sin for a long time. He panics and does the only thing he can think to do.

Dean drops to the floor and fakes a faint.

XXXXX

He lets Sam manhandle him into the passenger seat of the Impala, trying to keep his breathing even and his limbs limp so that Sam doesn’t catch on. It’s a lot harder than he’d expected. Apparently, part of being a demon includes intense paranoia, and it’s difficult to allow himself to be touched while his eyes are closed without ripping off the head of the thing touching him. It doesn’t matter that the thing touching him is actually his brother.

Sam manages to get Dean into the car, settling him into the passenger seat before he gets behind the wheel. Dean manages to keep his eyes closed even though the hair on the back of his neck is standing on end and his nerves are humming, muscles tensed and waiting to attack. He hears Sam pressing buttons on his phone, and soft ringing. The car’s radio is off.

Dean’s eyes start to go back to normal as he listens to the repetitive sound of Sam’s phone ringing dimly.

“Dammit, Bobby, pick up,” Sam mutters, and Dean decides it’s time to wake up.

He does so in a violent burst of swearing and flailing of limbs, pent-up energy exploding out of him in a frightening array of colorful curses. He sucks in a deep breath and slowly opens his eyes, endlessly thankful when the cool night air hits them without causing any burning or stinging. Sam stares at him worriedly.

“Sorry. I suppose I should ease myself back into violence, after hell,” Dean lies smoothly, and Sam’s worry crumbles into sympathy. He hits a button on the phone and redials Bobby’s number, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. “Nightmares suck when you faint, just so you know.”

He doesn’t know why he adds that, but it makes Sam wince, so he supposes it wasn’t a bad idea. Who knows, maybe being a better liar also comes with his new demon status. The phone in Sam’s hand clicks and Bobby’s voicemail starts playing. Sam presses the button a little harder than necessary when he hangs up, and pushes the gas pedal closer to the floor. Dean doesn’t comment, and they lapse into silence for a few minutes.

“So, what did I shoot?” Dean asks, scrutinizing Sam’s face. There’s a shallow cut on his forehead, blood having been wiped away with his sleeve. Dean can’t smell the blood, so there must not be much of it. Other than that, he’s fine. Thankfully.

“Um,” Sam replies. “Henriksen.”

“Henriksen?” Dean says incredulously. “Like, _Victor_ Henriksen? The guy from the FBI that was supposed to arrest us?”

Sam nods, and it’s clear that he doesn’t really believe himself either. “Yeah. I was washing my face, and the mirror frosted over and I could see my breath, and when I turned around, there he was.”

“Like a ghost?” Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. “Yeah, like a ghost. I don’t know how or why, but he was there, and he wanted to kill me. Said it was my fault he died.”

“You think that’s what’s been happening to other hunters? A gang of spirits on steroids chasing the people they think got them killed?” Dean mulls it over even as he says it, and decides that it’s pretty far-fetched. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam sighs. “But I’ve been calling Bobby since I got in the car, and he hasn’t picked up. I think I might be right, and that’s not good.”

“No, it isn’t,” Dean agrees. If Sam is right, and ghosts are taking out hunters, then he’s in for a helluva fight. He can’t use salt or iron to get at a ghost, because it would only hurt him too. The only way he could win would be by burning the bones, and even then he’d have to be very careful to avoid touching the rock salt before lighting it up. 

His blood hums in his veins and his eyes prickle. He’s ready.

They’re at Bobby’s house within ten minutes, exchanging a determined look before getting out, guns drawn, and creeping toward the front door. Sam skips the middle step because it creaks when he steps on it, but Dean’s slightly lesser weight isn’t enough to make the old wood complain. He hovers one foot behind Sam while Sam carefully inspects the doorknob, searching for any signs of forced entry. There are none, and Sam eases the door open. A shrill, thin creaking fills the air, and Dean makes a mental note to oil the hinges when they find Bobby.

The house is empty and deathly quiet, reminiscent of a church or a tomb. It smells like whiskey and dusty books, so Dean knows Bobby isn’t lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood upstairs. Sam, however, rounds every corner as if he expects to be confronted with a body at any second, gun drawn and eyes narrowed, stance defensive. Dean only has to make sure he doesn’t step into a devil’s trap.

Sam stops at the foot of the stairs, where a fire poker rests unassumingly against the bottom step, as if it was dropped and never picked up again. Sam kneels next to it, prodding it carefully with one finger while Dean glances around the still house. Even the dust motes seem to have stopped moving and are now holding their breath and watching the brothers with careful, wary eyes. 

“I’ll check outside. You go upstairs. Meet me outside when you’re done,” Sam hisses through clenched teeth, and then he’s gone, leaving Dean to glare at the stairwell and carefully pick his way up, avoiding every other step because he knows Bobby carved traps into them, unable to touch the railing because it has iron laid into the wood. 

At the top of the stairs, he has to press himself against the wall and slide past a devil’s trap, very nearly getting his foot caught in it. “Damned paranoid old man,” he mutters.

“Maybe it’s best to be paranoid.”

Dean turns on his heel, eyes flipping over to black without any urging. He pulls his lips back in a feral snarl instinctually, pointing his gun in the direction of the voice. There’s a thin blonde girl standing at the end of the hallway, dressed in dirty clothes, hair hanging limply around her pointed face.

“Sometimes, paranoia saves people,” she muses, and takes a step forward.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean spits past the searing in his retinas, and the girl stops.

She cocks her head and stares at him, eyes empty of all emotion but for rage. “Don’t you know me, Dean? Or maybe you don’t recognize me when I’m not choking on my own blood.”

“Meg?” he says, and she nods, dead eyes wide. Flashbacks of hell hit him, of after he got off the rack, of his friend Meg and all her gossip. She could tell him all the dirt on any demon, because she was plugged in to all the right channels of intel, and knew virtually everyone. He was lucky she’d befriended him instead of just killing him on the spot when they first met. He’d been rather nasty to her right at the start, mainly because she had attempted to kill him all those times, but they’d finally begun to get along after about a year. “You look different.”

“This is what I looked like before that demon cut my hair and dressed me like a slut,” she explains. One step forward. “I was just a college girl, walking home one night.” Another step. “I got jumped by some black smoke, and next thing I knew, I was trapped.” Step. “A prisoner in my own head.”

“Meg,” he murmurs, unsure. His eyes sting.

“I was awake, you know. The entire time. I could feel everything it did with my hands, everything.” She stops, exactly three feet from Dean’s outstretched gun. “A demon possessed me and used me to kill people!” she screams.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, because there’s nothing else to say.

“And now you’re one of them!” she roars, and knocks his gun out of his hand, a single tear making its way down her cheek. “I was trapped in there, screaming and praying for you to help me, to just get me out of there, and you threw me out a window! And you left me. You let me die, and then you became _one of them!”_

“Meg, we didn’t know!” he protests. The burning in his eyes increases. “I’m sorry!”

“Stop saying you’re sorry!” she shrieks, and throws a punch. It connects solidly with his jaw and he goes reeling, struggling to maintain balance, tripping over his own feet and crashing to the hardwood. Meg growls and launches her foot into his face, and he falls onto his back, tasting blood. His nose is broken.

She kicks away his gun and grabs the front of his shirt, pulling him in close so she can stare him down. There’s a scar on her hand but he doesn’t pay it much attention, instead locking eyes and struggling to breathe through the searing pain in his eyes. 

“Do you know what it’s like?” Meg murmurs, voice hard and unyielding as brick. “To be ridden—for months—by pure evil? To have to sit by while your family doesn’t even know what happened to you?”

“We didn’t know,” he protests. It comes out as a growl.

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t even bother thinking that there was a girl in there, a human girl who was trapped inside her own mind. You didn’t even think,” she hisses. 

“Meg,” he says warningly, but she isn’t listening.

“I had a sister, you know. A little sister, who worshipped me. You know how littler siblings are, don’t you? They’ll do anything for you.” Her voice is quieter now, soft and lost, like a scared college girl who doesn’t understand what’s happening. “She was never the same after I disappeared. She just—she just got lost.”

Dean spits out a mouthful of sweet-tasting blood and blinks hard, trying to ease some of the burning. It doesn’t work.

Meg’s voice hardens when she continues. “And when my body was lying in the morgue, beat up and broken, do you know what that did to her?”

Dean says her name again because it’s the only thing that can make it through the haze of rage and pain currently clouding his mind. Meg shakes her head, jaw set, eyes ablaze, brown boring into the black that greets her. She pulls her fist back and it connects with his temple even as she shouts. “She killed herself! Because of you, Dean! Because of your family, your demons! Fifty words of Latin a little sooner and she’d still be alive, and so would I. That’s all it would have taken. But all you cared about was _your_ revenge, _your_ inner demons. Looks like they aren’t so inner now, huh?”

“We did the best we could,” he shoots back, not even sure when he switched over from repentance and regret to anger. Meg’s face contorts into pure, unadulterated rage, and she throws him back. His head knocks against the wood flooring with a resounding crack, and something inside snaps. He feels loose and disconnected and his head is swimming, lost and confused, and there’s one second of actual fear before Meg draws back her foot and kicks him again, hard, right in the ribs, and then he’s gone.

XXXXX

Dean comes to in a completely different place. Meg is gone and for a split second, he thinks he’s alone. But there are—little girls? Two little girls sitting on either side of him, and he’s on his back on a bench seat in an old car, and he really doesn’t feel like himself.

One little girl has her hand clamped over his mouth, and she draws back as if she’d been scalded. Her young face twists into something inhuman, something angry. “You aren’t Bobby.”

“What? No, I’m Dean,” he says. The other girl blinks at him in confusion, red-ringed eyes opening and shutting rapidly. She exchanges a look with the other one, probably a twin of some sort, and they nod. The girl who’d been smothering him lunges forward and pinches his nose shut.

Dean’s eyes don’t hurt anymore, but they still feel off. He blinks and stops trying to breathe. It doesn’t affect him negatively in any way. The girls look at a loss and keep his nose and mouth covered, even though it obviously doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to breathe, apparently.

“Bobby! Bobby, I’m coming!” Sam shouts, and Dean wonders what the hell is going on. There’s a cacophony of bangs and crashes outside the old car he’s currently supposed to be trapped inside, and Sam’s loud voice ringing out, repeating Bobby’s name. The little girls glare down at Dean and he can feel their sharp fingernails poking into his chest, drawing tiny beads of blood to the surface. They’ve stopped trying to kill him one way, and begun another.

“What the fuck?” he mutters, and the girls growl at him in tandem. There are little scars on their hands too, reminiscent of the one on Meg’s hand. It must all be connected. There’s something going on here, and it has to do with the other murdered hunters.

But none of that matters right now, because Dean is about to be killed by little girls and he still doesn’t know how he got here. They press in on him, ripping into his chest, and he grunts in pain. Delight flashes across their small faces, and he kicks out against the one sitting on his legs, keeping him pinned. The other one has her tiny hands clamped down on his arms, allowing her sister to claw at him.

“Bobby!” Sam shouts again, but this time it’s a cry of recognition. There’s a great rending sound, and the door to the car is torn off.

The door to the car is pried open and both girls are gone, leaving Dean with a few tears in his green t-shirt. Wait, he wasn’t wearing a green t-shirt. He’s pretty sure he was wearing flannel. He reaches up to massage his temples and is met with a baseball cap. Baseball cap? His eyes flip back over to green, confusion calming his nerves enough to reverse the automatic reaction that turns them black.

“The fuck,” he breathes, and sits up. There are ten spots of red on his grimy shirt, and a small puncture underneath each one. He coughs and rubs a hand across his face, feeling much more stubble than is usually there. 

“Bobby, are you alright?” Sam asks, gaze searching. Dean blinks at him in confusion.

_Dammit,_ a voice in his head says. Dean chokes on his own saliva. It’s Bobby’s voice.

“What the hell?” Dean says out loud, and Bobby’s voice grumbles at him.

_I think you left your body, boy. You’re in mine._

“You alright?” Sam repeats, voice taking on a hint of worry. 

Dean nods at him, neck creaking. He rolls his shoulders and is met with a stiffness that was never there before. He looks down and the body isn’t his. “Great,” he breathes.

_I suggest you go back into the house, get away from Sam, and concentrate on getting back into your own body. Or so help me, I’ll kill you,_ Bobby mutters at him. Dean nods and Sam seems to take that as affirmation that he is indeed alright.

“We should probably go find Dean,” Sam suggests, and Dean nods. He hops down from the car and he and Sam pick their way down the veritable mountain of wreckages. Once on the ground, Sam directs him to look in the house while he searches the scrapyard, saying that he told Dean to meet him outside. Dean complies.

He sits at the kitchen table and wonders how the hell demons do this. When he smoked out before, it had felt like everything disconnected all at once. The sensation was too quick for him to really get a handle on it, but it had been as if every plug in his body had been pulled simultaneously. A great tugging disconnection and a flashing blue error message, and he must have instinctually sought out the nearest body. Good thing it hadn’t been Sam.

_Dammit boy, get out of me,_ Bobby grumbles, and Dean tries. He thinks and concentrates and musters every ounce of determination he possesses, but nothing happens. He sighs and tries again, closing his eyes and holding his breath. 

There’s a tugging in his stomach, and it feels like some of the blood rushes from his limbs. Everything tingles slightly and he goes numb, panic surging through his veins immediately. He can’t feel his body and he’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up. Everything swirls and he can’t see anymore, even though he had his eyes shut tightly in the first place, and then everything is gone.

Dean blinks, and his eyes don’t sting at all. He’s on the floor, bloodied face pressed into the dull wood, every inch of his body throbbing and bruised. He sits up slowly, shakily, and rubs his head. His hand comes away red. He spits out a mouthful of blood, and it tastes like honey and sunshine. And if that isn’t fucked-up, he doesn’t know what is.

“Dean?” Bobby shouts from downstairs, and Dean grunts into the floor. He honestly can’t move yet. His arms tingle and his legs are numb and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say he’d lost all ten of his fingers. He hopes it’s just a side effect of changing bodies and not permanent.

“Up here,” he groans, and lets his eyes fall shut. Bobby’s loud footsteps sound on the stairs, and Dean sighs heavily. His nose is broken, without a doubt. He can only hope it’ll heal. After all, demons usually don’t heal when they’re possessing some poor bastard. They just force the body to keep going, and let it die when they’re done.

“You okay?” Bobby asks. Dean wrenches his eyes open and comes face-to-face with Bobby’s boots. He nods slowly, carefully.

“That wasn’t fun,” he observes, and stretches out a hand. Bobby helps him to his feet and he leans heavily against the wall. “Let’s never do that again.”

“What the hell happened to you?” Bobby demands.

“Meg. Or her ghost. Or something. Who were the little girls?” Dean says.

Bobby shakes his head. “Come downstairs and I’ll tell you and your brother about it.”

XXXXX

Sam is pacing, alternating between glaring at Bobby, glaring at Dean, and glaring at the floor. “So they were all people we know?”

“People we couldn’t save,” Dean replies, not looking up from the gun he’s cleaning. He wipes the dingy rag down the length of the barrel a few times and blows on it to get the little fuzzies left behind to go spiraling to the floor. He mentally berates himself for referring to small bits of cloth as “fuzzies.” He’s a badass demon, dammit. Demons do not use the word “fuzzies.”

“Dean, you okay?” Sam asks. He’s stopped moving and is standing in front of dean, one eyebrow raised and bitchface turned up to maximum. Dean looks up from the gun and nods, trying to look sincere. It’s not easy.

“I saw something on Meg’s hand. She didn’t have a tattoo, did she?” he asks. Bobby stops leafing through dusty old books and looks up at him. “It was a mark on her hand. Kinda like a brand.”

Recognition finds its way into Sam’s eyes. “There was a mark on Henriksen too.”

“What did it look like?” Bobby asks.

Sam picks up a piece of paper—a receipt from the nearest gas station for a full tank of gas, three packages of beef jerky, and a six-pack of beer—and scribbles something on it with a Sharpie. Dean puts the gun back together with sure, steady hands while his brother draws. Sam holds up the receipt and Dean leans forward for a better look. There’s a poorly drawn sigil in the center of the page, a circle with a few squiggles in it. It isn’t the best rendition, but it’s enough for him to identify the brand on Meg’s hand.

“That’s it,” he confirms. Sam hands the paper to Bobby, who stares it with narrowed eyes before turning to his bookcase and running his calloused fingers along a few cracked spines.

“I think I’ve seen this before,” he says, selecting a graying book with a tattered cover. He thrusts a book into Sam’s arms and picks up another, turning to hand it to Dean.

The radio turns on, static humming softly.

“Dammit,” Bobby breathes. “We gotta move. Follow me.”

He selects a few more books and grabs Sam by the arm, glaring at Dean in the universal signal for “you too, moron” before leading them to the basement door. They descend the stairs quickly and quietly, Bobby in the lead and Dean in the back trying not to touch the iron handrail. The stairs themselves are iron as well, and he’s never been more thankful for thick-soled boots. He holds tightly to the leather-bound book in his hands and wonders why it isn’t dark. Usually Bobby’s basement is pitch-black and only illuminated by the thin light that manages to fight its way through the dirty panes of the foot tall windows that ring the ceiling. Now, though, it’s like daylight, and even though he knows demons can see in the dark, his night vision can’t possibly be this good.

At the bottom of the steps, Sam trips over a large metal canner and tumbles to the concrete, swearing. “Dammit Bobby, get some lights down here!”

“There are some, you idjit. I’m just not turning them on because whatever’s out there would see them and know we were down here.”

Dean stops at the foot of the stairs and waits for Sam to pick himself up off the ground. “But it’s like daylight down here, Sammy. How can you not see?”

“Um, because it’s black as sin down here?” Sam replies sarcastically, squinting in the general vicinity of Dean’s face. “Maybe you just have better night vision.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Dean mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. He makes a mental note to see just how far his newfound night vision can go. If it’s dark as Sam implies, then it must go pretty far.

“Will you two stop bitching about the lights and help me?” Bobby calls gruffly. He’s standing beside a huge iron door, one hand on the heavy handle and the other cradling several books and a dim flashlight. Dean swallows hard and lets Sam go first. There’s no way he’s touching that door. Literally.

The hinges creak sinisterly when they finally manage to wrench it open, sending a shiver tracing up Dean’s spine. The room inside is dark, but Dean can see a thin cot, and a small desk, and a devil’s trap made of iron on the ceiling. It casts a thin shadow onto the concrete floor. The walls appear to be made of iron, and if Dean knows one thing, it’s that he’s never going in there.

Sam, obviously, has other ideas. He steps into the darkened room and flips a heavy industrial switch on the wall, turning on the lights. The watery outline of the devil’s trap is solidified. Bobby flashes Dean a semi-apologetic look and drops his armful of books onto the cot while Sam runs a hand along the iron wall.

“Bobby, is this…?” Sam asks, gently caressing the wall in a way that makes Dean a little uncomfortable.

“Solid iron,” Bobby confirms. He turns to Dean and clears his throat. “You stand right outside with that gun of yours and make sure nobody comes down those stairs. If they do, shoot or get inside and close the door.”

“Will do,” Dean says, and leans on the doorframe. 

Sam pulls his hand away from the wall and smells it. “Is that salt?”

“Yep. The walls are coated in it. Entirely ghost-proof and demon-proof,” Bobby confirms, avoiding Dean’s gaze. 

Sam looks caught between disbelief and being impressed. “You build a panic room?”

“I had a weekend off,” Bobby replies easily, and Sam laughs. Dean sits cross-legged on the floor outside the panic room and puts his gun across his knees, staring into the darkened basement with watchful eyes. He quickly finds that his night vision isn’t ruined by looking directly at the windows and then back at the shadowed corners. He can see perfectly fine no matter what he looks at. 

“You know,” he says suddenly. Sam looks up from where he’s begun loading iron pellets into shotgun shells. “I just can’t get behind God.”

“Why not?” Sam asks, deftly loading another bullet.

Bobby mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “Of course you can’t. I wonder why.”

“Because, if He’s not out there, it makes sense. No rhyme or reason. Bad things happen to good people. I can live with that. But if He is, then why is everything so fucked up? How does He live with Himself? Why doesn’t He help?” he explains, staring broodily into the corner. There’s a spider spinning an intricate web there. It’s very interesting.

Sam puts down a shell and looks at Bobby.

“I ain’t touching this one with a ten-foot pole,” Bobby says defensively, then glances back at his book. “By the way, I found it.”

Dean glances up, and Bobby sighs. He picks up the book and carries it over to where Dean can see without stepping into the panic room. Dean smiles at him thankfully and Sam rolls his eyes and mutters about being over-cautious. 

“What is it?” Sam asks, craning his neck to see without leaving his desk. 

Bobby points to the yellowed page. “The mark on their hands was the Mark of the Witness.”

“Witness to what?” Dean asks, scanning the page. The words are in some ancient language long-forgotten. Probably only about three people still speak it, and Bobby is two of them. There are a row of symbols down the page, with the brand from Meg’s hand in the line. He squints at the book again, recognition smacking him in the face with a baseball bat. He shifts subtly away, and Bobby pretends not to notice.

“The unnatural,” Bobby answers simply. “None of them died ordinary deaths, and were they forced to rise. They’re all in agony, like rabid dogs. It’s not their fault. Someone rose them, on purpose.”

“Who?” Sam demands, eyes alight with curiosity that mingles with subtle fear.

“Do I look like I know?” Bobby replies. “But whoever it was, they used a powerful spell. It left a mark on their souls. Whoever it was, they had big plans.”

“Plans?” Dean asks, wishing Bobby would get that book away from him soon.

Bobby nods, face grave and eyes dark. “It’s called the Rising of the Witnesses. It figures into an ancient prophecy.”

“Wait. What book is that?” Sam asks. He stands and crosses the room, staring intently at the scrawls of archaic language. He frowns deeply and runs an index finger down a wrinkled page, lightly touching the Mark of the Witness with it. Dean meets Bobby’s eyes and an unspoken decision is agreed upon. Bobby will tell Sam.

“Put simply: Revelations.” Bobby glances between the Winchesters without visible emotion, which either means he’s terrified or furious. Probably both. “This is a sign, boys.”

“A sign of what?” Sam and Dean press in unison. They don’t look at each other. They’re used to accidentally speaking at the same time. 

Bobby sighs heavily. He runs a hand across his face and leans against the wall, shutting the book firmly. A tiny puff of dust is released when the pages meet. His voice is quiet and lacking his usual gruffness when he responds. “The apocalypse.”

Dean stops breathing for a second, forgets that he doesn’t actually need to breathe, and continues breathing normally. Sam’s face has gone entirely blank, devoid of anything. It’s like a rock; shut off and immobile. Dean blinks a few times.

“The apocalypse? Like, the _apocalypse?_ As in, four horsemen, five-dollar-gas apocalypse?” He pretends to his voice didn’t shoot up at least two octaves. Thankfully, Bobby and Sam do the same. 

“That’s the one,” Bobby confirms. “The Rise of the Witnesses is a… mile-marker, so to speak.”

“So what do we do now?” Sam asks.

Dean rolls his eyes and puts on his best “fuck this I’m out” expression, snorting. “Road trip. Grand Canyon, Star Trek Experience, a bunny ranch. We’re going to live out our lives in style.”

“First things first,” Bobby says, ignoring him. “We have to survive your friends out there.”

“Okay. How are we going to do that? I mean, besides staying in this lovely room for the rest of our lives,” Dean replies scathingly. He didn’t miss how Bobby referred to the demons (or possibly angels, they’re not entirely sure) as his friends. As if he’s friendly with the rest of them. Well, actually he gets along with most of them fairly well, especially Meg. He’s pretty sure that in a pinch, he could smooth-talk his way out of being dragged back to hell, if only because he has blackmail material on almost everyone down there because of her.

“There’s a spell. It’ll put the Witnesses back to rest. Pretty sure I’ve got everything we need here at the house,” Bobby says with a sigh, settling into a hard-backed metal chair that probably has iron of some sort in it. Dean sighs and bangs his head against the wall, ignoring the stinging where his skin comes into contact with the salt. 

“Any chance it’s all in this room?” Dean asks hopefully.

Bobby glares at him. “You think our luck’s just gonna start now? The spell has to be cast over an open fire. We can use the one in the library.”

Dean looks around at the panic room. “Just not as appealing,” he mutters.

Bobby cuffs him on the back of the head in a rough, loving fashion and Dean suppresses the natural growling response. “We need to get upstairs. Take a gun and cover each other, and don’t stop shooting until I’m done, but aim careful. If you run out, they’ll tear you to shreds. You go first, since you can see in the dark so damn good.”

Dean nods and takes up his gun, clicking the hammer into place. He stands and takes a tentative step into the basement, carefully scrutinizing all the corners. The spider has finished its web and retreated into the blackness, and nothing moves. He leads the way to the stairs.

There’s a man on the top stair, sitting with his elbows on his knees. He looks up, eyes empty and haunted, and his face is utterly blank. “Hey, Dean. Remember me?”

Dean thinks for a second, and then it hits him. “Ronald, right? With the shifter? I wish I could say it’s good to see you.”

Ronald stands up, stringy hair falling in his face. “I am dead because of you. You were supposed to help me!”

Dean’s about to say something else when Bobby fires, iron pellets dissolving Ronald’s shape instantly. He disappears in a cloud of smoke and sparks, leaving behind a faint scent of grave dirt. Dean doesn’t question how he knows it’s grave dirt as opposed to regular dirt. He figures it’s a demon thing.

“If you’re gonna shoot, shoot. Don’t talk,” Bobby says in response to Sam’s questioning look. They continue up the stairs, Dean clutching his gun a little tighter than necessary. He starts to run when he reaches the top, sprinting into the library as if all of hell is on his heels. And, most likely, it is.

Once in the library, the three spring into motion, a flurry of activity. Bobby pours rock salt in a circle around them while Dean lights a newspaper with a match, not even noticing when the flames lick his hands. He throws it into the fireplace and turns to watch Sam darting up the stairs after a red hex box. 

“Sorry I had to block us in,” Bobby says breathlessly, gesturing to the salt line. Dean nods in understanding. He’d rather be trapped and alive than dead.

The little girls from earlier are standing right outside the salt, twin faces dark and expressionless. Dean shoots in their direction without a word, and they vanish with a shrill giggle that’s sure to haunt him for weeks. Bobby thrusts a book and a piece of chalk into his hands. “Draw this on the table. I have to go get herbs and ingredients.”

Dean does his best to replicate the sigil on the page, with shaky movements at first and later more confidently. He scrawls as fast as he dare. Somewhere else in the house, shots go off, and he can only hope that Sam is okay. He wonders who Sam would see.

“Dean.” Dean looks up and meets the blank gaze of Victor Henriksen, standing at the edge of the salt line, toes of his shoes brushing up against it. He jerks his head in acknowledgement and goes back to his work, too busy and frantic to really care. Besides, Henriksen can’t hurt him. Dean can’t get out, and Victor can’t get in. They are, essentially, quarantined on their own sides of the line. “Listen to me, Dean.”

“I know,” he says without looking up, prickling eyes glued to the white chalk lines.

“No, you don’t know,” Henriksen growls, and Dean faces him at last.

“Yeah I do. It’s my fault you’re dead. I left you behind. Now can I get back to work?” he replies, and continues drawing. Henriksen makes a terrifyingly inhuman noise and leans against the barrier of the salt line, eyes ablaze with hatred and fury. Dean begrudgingly gives him his attention once more.

“You think Lilith came and we all died in a beautiful blast of light? No. She wanted to have some fun first.” Henriksen’s voice is hard and flinty, and Dean feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His eyes burn.

“What?” he asks against his better judgment.

“Oh yeah. Forty-five minutes, she played with us. Remember Nancy, the virgin? She was first. Lilith filleted her right in front of us, made us watch. Nancy never stopped screaming.”

“No,” Dean protests, though he doesn’t really know why. The idea of filleting a person doesn’t seem as bad as it once did. But just the fact that it doesn’t is enough to make his stomach turn violently. He can overlook the downsides sometimes, but that doesn’t change what he is. He’s a demon, plain and simple. He’s evil and rotten to the core and he deserves every bad thing that could happen.

Henriksen grins at him, as if he knows the chain reaction he’s set off. “How is that fair? You get saved from hell, and I died. Why did they think you should have another chance? I suppose it’s only right that it all went south.”

Dean ignores him and continues drawing.

“You’re scum now, Dean. You’re no better than the things you’ve always hunted. You deserve to be thrown back in the pit and tortured for eternity because of what you are. And I’m going to watch,” he spits. Dean doesn’t pay attention. He can hear Sam’s heavy footsteps clunking down the stairs and knows Bobby will be back in shortly. The sigil is almost done.

“You’ll rot in hell, Dean, just you wait,” Henriksen taunts. A shotgun goes off and when Dean glances up, Sam is holding it, pointed at the spot where Henriksen stood. Sam is panting and cradling a red box, presumably the one Bobby sent him after.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“Obviously,” Dean replies.

Bobby shoves open the library doors with his arms full of supplies. Ronald is on his heels, grey face blank as he walks calmly. Bobby crosses the salt line and Ronald stands right outside, dead eyes boring into Dean.

“I’m going to eat you alive,” Ronald taunts, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Sorry man, I don’t swing that way,” he replies, and empties a round into Ronald’s spectral face. Ronald dissipates and Dean can hear Bobby frantically tossing things into a metal bowl. Dean keeps his gun up, barrel pointed outwards, eyes trained on the darkened corners that Sam wouldn’t be able to see as well. Behind him, Bobby begins chanting in another language.

The wind picks up suddenly, banging through the shutters and whipping the curtains about wildly. Dean uses his gun to cover his head instinctually as the wind tears through the house. The windows, somehow opened in the gale, make it howl as it passes through them. Cabinet doors bang and the pages of Bobby’s book flutter violently. The flame in the fireplace flickers and threatens to go out.

Sam fires a shot, and Dean sees Meg out of the corner of his eyes. She’s gone before he can actually look at her. Bobby resumes his chanting and the wind grows louder, more violent.

Ronald is in front of Dean, and he shoots calmly. It takes three shots to get Ronald to turn to smoke and sink into the floor. Sam is shooting too, the shots painfully loud in such an enclosed space. Dean’s ears begin to ring but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, because now Henriksen is stalking toward Sam and Sam is occupied with the twin girls, and if Dean stops his brother will die, which he refuses to allow to happen again. Never again.

Bobby’s chanting gets louder and more hurried, but Dean doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t stop shooting. They’re appearing as fast as he can dissolve them now, and he’s beginning to struggle. They’re encroaching on his space, getting right up to the salt line. The wind is whipping through his clothes and slicing at exposed skin, doing its damnedest to blow away the rock salt. The line is already wearing thin in some places. Dean doesn’t stop firing. He doesn’t even recognize half the people he shoots.

The gun is suddenly torn from his hands, and Dean fumbles for the spare on the table behind him as Henriksen closes in, small smirk on his face. Dean brings the gun up and pulls the trigger, getting a click in response. It’s not loaded.

“Sorry, Dean,” Henriksen intones. He takes another step forward. The salt line is broken.

Dean grabs the nearest iron tool and shouts when it sears his hands. His eyes go black without prompting and he swings it at Henriksen, doing his best to ignore the blistering agony in his fingers. Henriksen is gone in a whoosh of black smoke and Dean drops the iron, clutching his hands to his chest. They hurt, dammit, worse than anything else. Almost as bad as hell.

He can feel blisters forming and knows that he’s burned pretty badly. He’s going to need bandages and a good explanation. He swears softly and glances over at Sam, who is still frantically staving off the flow of the undead. Bobby is still working the spell and Dean is being advanced upon by an old woman in a dirty pink shawl. 

He stares at the old woman with wide, frightened eyes. He doesn’t recognize her. She advances on him with a shuffling, jerking gait, one arm hanging limply by her side. Her voice is a croak. “Do you remember me, Dean? I bet you don’t. I was the first one you tortured. You could have said no. You could have saved me from that torment.”

Dean wets his lips and takes a step back. Sam shoots and she’s gone in a cloud of smoke and sparks. Dean tosses a thankful glance at his brother, and Sam nods at him. 

While Sam is distracted, Meg materializes in front of him. She narrows her eyes and a desk goes flying across the room, pinning Sam against a bookshelf. Dean starts toward her but she settles her glare on him, locking his legs in place. Sam grunts in pain and drops his gun. 

“Sammy!” Dean shouts, before remembering that it’s probably not a good idea for Sam to look at him while his eyes are black. Luckily Sam is completely focused on the twin girls, who are looming over him with hate-filled eyes. 

Bobby stops chanting suddenly, and Dean looks over to see Meg with her hand buried in his back. Bobby cries out and Meg tightens her grip on whatever she’s planning on ripping out. Dean watches in horror as Bobby loses his grip on the bowl.

The bowl falls.

Dean leaps after it without thinking.

He catches it right before it hits the ground, agony blossoming across his burned palms when his skin comes into contact with the iron. He shouts, but he doesn’t let go. Instead he throws the bowl into the fireplace, falling onto his stomach and going limp. His stomach turns at the pain in his hands. The flames in the fireplace leap and he rests his forehead on the wooden floor, vision swimming. His eyes sting and his hands burn and he’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up.

There’s a searing white light, and Dean passes out.

XXXXX

Dean wakes up on a pile of blankets on the floor, face pressed into rough cotton. He glances up and sees Sam asleep on the couch. They must have survived, then. Gratefully, he presses his face back into the warm blankets, doing his best to ignore his throbbing palms.

Then the hair on the back of his neck stands up. He tenses and strains his hearing, breath lodging in his throat. The house is still and silent for a total of ten seconds, and then he hears a gentle whoosh, like wings caressing the air. Dean rises onto his elbows, glancing into the kitchen.

Castiel is there.

Dean climbs carefully to his feet, making no sound when he approaches the angel. Castiel watches him impassively. Dean stops when he’s a safe distance away, close enough to feel the raw power pulsing off the unassuming man but far enough to run should he need to.

Castiel speaks first. “Excellent job with the Witnesses.”

Dean stares at him incredulously. “You knew about all this?”

“I was made aware,” Castiel confirms.

“Well, thanks for the help. I almost got my heart ripped out, you know,” Dean whisper-shouts. He wants to scream at Castiel and demand answers, but he dare not wake Sam. “I almost died.”

“But you did not,” Castiel says calmly. 

“You know, I didn’t know angels were dicks. I thought they’d be nice, fluffy-wings, pearly-gates, all-knowing. But you didn’t even know I was a fucking demon until I flashed my eyes at you,” Dean hisses. He can feel his eyes threatening to flash now, too, now that he thinks about it.

“That was my mistake,” Castiel replies. “When I saved you, some of my Grace was mixed into the blackness of your soul. That is why I could not sense your evil. It is also why holy water would have had no effect, and why direct sunlight would not have hurt your eyes immediately.”

“Great, so my entire raising-from-the-dead thing was a mistake,” Dean says scathingly. Castiel doesn’t respond. “What kind of God would let that happen? That is, if there is one.”

“There is a God,” Castiel confirms. His blue eyes are confident and he nods firmly. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, and if there is, why isn’t He helping? Why isn’t He down here taking care of this shit when people are getting ripped to shreds? Where is He?” Dean demands.

Castiel doesn’t meet his eyes. “The lord works in—” 

“If you say ‘mysterious ways’ I will go full demon on your ass,” Dean warns. Castiel sets his jaw and doesn’t respond. “You’re lucky I don’t finish what we started in that barn.”

“I would kill you with a touch, if we didn’t need you,” Castiel says casually.

Dean stares at him, breath caught in his throat. “You need me? What for?”

Castiel sighs. “The Rising of the Witnesses was one of the sixty-six seals. They’re being broken. By Lilith.”

Dean grabs onto the counter and does his best to retain balance, willing his eyes to stay green. He takes a deep breath before speaking. “And what happens when they’re all broken?”

“They’re like locks on a door,” Castiel explains, gaze glued to the floor. His back is ramrod straight and he’s tense, the picture of discomfort. Dean thinks he can sense a tiny spark of fear in him, too. “And when they’re all broken, the door will open.”

“And?” Dean presses.

Castiel looks up and locks eyes with Dean. “Lucifer walks free.”

“Lucifer?” Dean repeats. His eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “Like, the devil? But he’s not real. Lucifer is just a story they tell at demon Sunday school.”

Castiel stares at him gravely. “A week ago, you didn’t believe in me, either.”

The room falls silent and the only sound is Sam’s breathing from the other room. Dean tries to calm his rapidly beating heart. A headache settles in directly behind his right eye and throbs, adding to the pain already centered there. His hands ache as well. This is not a good night.

“But we put the Witnesses back to rest,” Dean points out.

“The seal remains broken,” Castiel intones. Dean feels the air rush out of his lungs all at once. Lucifer. Lucifer and the goddamn apocalypse and angels and Dean really needs a beer. Just a few days ago, he was dead. And now he’s alive and in the middle of all this shit, and it really isn’t fair. Isn’t one life of pain and struggle enough?

“Where were you guys when Lilith was breaking it?” Dean demands, suddenly angry again.

“There are other battles to fight, more important ones. We cannot be everywhere at once. Our armies are not infinite. Six of my brothers were lost today,” Castiel says. Dean deflates again. He huffs out a hysterical laugh and rubs a hand into his eyes, wishing they’d stop stinging already. He’d already calmed down. Why wouldn’t the damn things pick a color and stay that way?

“Your eyes are threatening to turn black because you feel threatened by my presence, whether you acknowledge it or not. It is in your demonic nature now,” Castiel says, and Dean gets the distinct feeling that he was reading his mind.

“I bet you’re real happy about that,” Dean mutters darkly.

Castiel doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

XXXXX

Dean startles awake, face pressed into the rough cotton of the blankets. He sits up immediately, glancing wildly at his surroundings. He’s on the makeshift bed he woke up on last night before his little chat with the angel.

Shit. The angel. And Lucifer.

Sam is buttoning his shirt on the couch. “You okay, Dean? You passed out yesterday when we put the Witnesses back to rest. Bobby put you there and let you sleep it off.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, feeling lost. “Yeah, I’m fine. So, um, you have no problem believing in angels and God and all that crap?”

Sam nods once, eyes obviously asking where this conversation is going. “Yeah, why?”

“So you believe in… the devil?” Dean asks. 

“I suppose. Why, Dean? Why does it matter?”

Dean bites his bottom lip and looks down, unable to meet his little brother’s gaze. “You might want to remain sitting for this, Sammy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so some stuff came up, and I don't know when I'll be able to put the next chapter up. Hopefully it's soon, but I don't know. Sorry!


End file.
